“Bring me an angel.” Otto Strickler, choir master of the cathedral in Munich, Germany, pulled out the note from Baron Derick von Obertstdorf, a major patron of the cathedral in late eighteenth-century Bavaria, and read it again as his coach lurched along, south from Munich, into the Bavarian Alps. He looked across to the other seat, where the angel, fourteen-year-old orphan and cathedral boy’s choir treble soloist, Jan Becker, was lolling his head against the side of his bench seat, small, blond, beautiful, angelic, and sweetly smiling, even in repose.

Strickler sighed. He hadn’t wanted to bring Jan. The situation with the boy was uncomplicated, perfect for Otto. The boy’s parents had died in a flood at Freising on the Isar River while the boy was at the cathedral school, and Jan was an orphan, entirely in the care of Otto now. The boy had shown willingness to respond to Otto’s attentions, yielding to kisses and fondling, but the choir master had been moving to take more. There was every reason to believe the boy would let the choir master cover him before he turned fifteen, but the boy was a virgin to anal penetration still.

Otto had only selected Jan to respond to the patron’s “Bring me an angel” when Strickler made his twice-yearly trip to Obertstdorf’s isolated castle Ringang high in the Bavarian Alps because there were so few boys in the choir now who met the baron’s rigorous requirements and, most important, Jan’s voice was on the cusp of changing. Within weeks, Jan would no longer be the boy treble soloist in the choir. He would be taken as an altar boy by Brother Michael, who had more power in the cathedral than Otto did, and all of Otto’s preparation of the boy, the joy of breaking and riding a virgin, would be reaped by Brother Michael.

Otto had no interest in serving Brother Michael’s interests.

The coach lurched in going over a stone in the road and the boy opened his eyes and gave Otto a dazzling smile. Otto leaned over the space between the two benches, placed his hands on the boy’s knees, and spread Jan’s legs. The boy’s welcoming smile remained, both innocent and yielding, trusting Otto to do what they both wanted. The choir master shuddered, sorely tempted to take the first bite of the peach from the boy. He leaned further in and kissed the boy on the lips. Jan opened his lips to the man, ready to surrender all. Otto fumbled around with the buttons of his trouser fly and released himself and then did the same with the boy, taking Jan’s hand and moving it across the space to Otto’s erection. The boy was trembling, but he did not resist. He had just looked on with interest as Otto released both of their shafts, and Jan was as close to full erection as Otto was. Otto’s lips continued to capture Jan’s as his hand gripped the boy’s cock.

The two masturbated each other as the coach lurched along. Otto ached to go further, to rise and move between the boy’s spread legs, to enter and fuck the boy, and his fantasies took him there, mounted on the boy, with Jan’s legs hooked on his hips, moving forward and back with the rocking the coach, breeding and seeding the boy for the first time, but he kept it a fantasy, just completing their mutual masturbation, as he knew that his patron, the Baron Derick von Obertstdorf, demanded a virgin.

And he knew the baron had an uncanny ability to determine what boy was a virgin and what boy was not. Otto had made the mistake of trying to give the man sullied goods before, had been caught at it, and had a devil of a time covering it over. He would not make that mistake again. The baron turned into a devil when he was crossed.

Ringang Castle hovered on a ridgetop in the perpetual shadow of the Fellhorn Alp, rarely seen in the light of day, tucked inside a ravine where you wouldn’t know the imposing but intimidating pile of stone existed if you didn’t know it was there and weren’t seeking it out. The baron, a handsome man seemingly in his early forties, elegantly dressed, with dark, good looks and glowering with dark, piercing eyes beneath bushy eyebrows bespeaking of his muscular, hirsute body, was there, in a dimly lit library. He was standing next to a hovering, lit fireplace, when Otto Strickler and his young ward, Jan Becker, were ushered into his presence. All of the servants they had encountered were young, handsome, but pale young men who would not make eye contact with the visitors. Standing next to the baron was a young man, probably fourteen, as Jan was, who bore a striking resemblance to the baron. He was strikingly more robust than the other young men wandering around the castle.

“This is my nephew, Ernst,” the baron said. “I thought you might enjoy meeting him, Otto. And who is this beautiful boy you have brought with you?”

Otto had a moment of bitter thought. The baron was acting like Jan’s presence was a surprise to him when Otto well knew that the baron had instructed him not to come to pick up the next installment of money to rebuild the Munich Cathedral organ unless he brought Jan or some other delectable fourteen-year-old boy.

They had arrived late, after dark, although it was perpetually dark in this fold of the alps where Castle Ringang perched, and they almost straight away moved into the adjacent dining room, a large, shadowing, cold-feeling chamber, to sup. The baron had Jan sitting beside him and Otto and Ernst sitting further down the table, quite a distance away. This encouraged the conversation, such as it was, as pale young men, with eyes averted, served the meal, to be separate—the baron with Jan and Otto with the young Ernst.

After the meal had been consumed and without further direction, the baron and Jan looked up to find that Otto and Ernst had left the table. Sounds of effort were heard coming from the library, and the baron turned to Jan and said, “Perhaps you would like to see some etchings I’ve just received. They are in the lounge. Come, let’s withdraw there.”

Jan, his head a bit dizzy from the heady wine the baron had pressed on him to drink, coming from a different ewer than the others were served from, stumbled up from the table, with the baron’s assistance, and the two left the dining room. The baron put an arm around the boy’s waist to help him walk to the lounge. As they did so, they passed by the door into the library, where Otto was sitting on a sofa and a naked fourteen-year-old Ernst was sitting in his lap, facing him, and rising and falling on Otto’s cock. Ernst had his face buried in Otto’s throat and was licking and kissing him there.

The etchings Baron Derick showed Jan in the lounge, the two of them sitting on a velvet sofa, were of older men fucking boys on velvet sofas. The drug in the wine Jan had drunk had taken its effect, and, as its hold on the boy grew stronger, the etchings the baron brought out were increasingly explicit. They weren’t just of men fucking boys on a velvet sofa. They were of the baron fucking boys on this sofa.

“Do you find these etchings to your liking, young man? Are they pleasant and arousing to you?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That’s me in that etching.”

“Yes, I see that, sire.”

“Do you like what I am doing to that boy in the etching?”

“Yes, sire.”

“I am quite large, but I would be very careful. Would you—?”

“Yes, sire.” Otto had instructed Jan to say “yes, sire” to anything the baron requested. In his daze, Jan was remembering that much of what he was supposed to say and do.

Quite quickly, as it was apparent that Jan was not disturbed by these etchings, the boy was stripped of his clothes and lying, naked, on his back, on the sofa, and the baron was on top of him, Jan’s knees hooked on the baron’s hips. And, though the boy struggled and squirmed a bit at the pain and stretch of the entry, he was weak from the drugging, uncertain from having been prepared to wish for this, and was being held in thrall by very strong and determined arms and hands that had been in this position before.

Drugged to both stretch his virginal channel to the demands of the baron’s gigantic erection and to tolerate if not fully enjoy the deflowering, Jan lay under Derick, the baron’s dark eyes boring into his to hold his attention, his own gaze glazed over, his mouth gaping open in the yawn of a perpetual scream, and his hands clutching the man’s biceps, the fingers opening and closing to the rhythm of the man’s thrusting, thrusting, spouting, breeding, seeding.

A difficult breaching, yielding to full invasion and possession, several minutes of thrusting, and an ejaculation in the boy’s core, and Jan’s virginity to the anal invasion of men’s cocks was merely a memory of the past. All that remained were the boy’s whimpers, panting, and sobs.

The boy settled now as the baron kissed him and fondled the precious boy’s body, murmuring to Jan how beautiful he was, how well the boy had taken the cock, and as he felt himself on the rise again—that it would be more pleasant for Jan a second and succeeding times.

And then he turned the boy, belly to sofa arm, arms and head dangling over the side, mounted him from behind and above, and fucked him again.

Just a couple of anal fucks—the ceremonial sexual deflowering of the boy for now. The rest would come later—after the baron had taken the boy upstairs, to bed. Then the baron would have it all.

Disoriented, head still groggy from whatever had been in the wine he drank earlier, in the dark, putting his hand out and feeling a curtain, fourteen-year-old Jan drew the drapery aside and put his feet on the floor. He couldn’t remember much of anything since he’d been sitting at dinner with Otto and the baron and his nephew, and even that—and the coach ride—seemed to have been a dream.

The richness of a carpet under his bare feet told him he wasn’t in his dormitory bed back in the Munich Cathedral school. But of course he wasn’t. The choir master had taken him on a long coach journey—to the mountains. It wasn’t just his feet that were bare. He was naked. Where was this? Why was he here? What was happening to him? Why was he sore “down there”?

Arms emerged from inside the curtain wall, pulling the angelic boy back onto the bed in the lord’s canopied bed in his chamber high up in the castle in the Bavarian Alps. The curtains were drawn closed, making the world of Jan and the baron—the Baron Derick von Obertstdorf—only what was in the confines of the large canopy bed—and the mattress on which the baron had been taking his pleasure with the drugged Jan for some time. Enfolding the young man in his arms again, fully in command, and putting Jan on his knees, chest to silken sheets, under him, the man’s erect cock slipped inside the fourteen-year-old’s channel again.