June, 2001, Naples, Italy

I feel the need and desire of Klaus at my back. We are stretched out, naked except for the sandals lacing up to our knees, on the Roman couch, backed by draped silk. He is more than twice my age, taller, and much more muscular than I, dwarfing my not-yet-fully developed fourteen-year-old body as he stretches behind me, an arm draped over me, his hand palming my privates. Guido, just in drooping shorts in the Naples summer heat, moves around us under the arc lights with his camera, clicking a photo from this angle and that. I can feel Klaus’s need and desire pressing at my back; he is a gigantically endowed man, purposely so, Guido has told me, to provide an arousing visual contrast between the huge man and the small boy. When Klaus has gotten his shaft inside me, photos will focus on the size of it inside my small hole. Today is much like yesterday and the day before in this photo shoot. Today is just not the day I lost my virginity to men.

Two days ago I was a virgin to the cocks of men. Today I am not.

“Enough for the portfolio. Continue as you will for the patron shots,” says Guido, old at fifty, short and a bit rotund and wrinkled, but electrifyingly vital and berry brown tanned by the Italian sun and his habit of living in the nude, as he puts another camera, a video camera, on a tripod facing the couch to view it at an angle.

This started two days before, with the early photographs of Klaus in Roman armor and me, his Ethiopian slave, in a tunic, serving him wine at the couch. Over the two days, the setting established, the clothing had disappeared and Guido had shot hundreds of poses of man and boy in provocative poses. The photos of the fucking come in a separate shoot at the end of the day and are, Guido says, for a different portfolio and set of patrons. I lost my virginity to men on that first day.

I cry out as Klaus’s hand grasps my small cock and balls in a tight grip. I writhe under him as he laces his fingers through my balls, gripping the base of my cock tightly and squeezes and rolls my balls. My head has been resting on his other arm, and he palms the back of my head, turning my face to his, and takes me into a deep kiss. Still I writhe; still he attacks my privates, owning me.

He squeezes my genitals and strokes my cock as I struggle, ineffectively, in his arms, with Guido moving around us, taking photos, until I come for Klaus—and for the camera. Although I am suffering, I have agreed to this, in exchange for a roof over my head and food on my plate. I have consented to this, but Guido said I can act like each time is my first time. Klaus is so cruel that I don’t have to act to show I am suffering.

Then, with Guido still circling us with his camera, shooting with one hand and rubbing his crotch with the other, and me collapsed from having been manhandled and milked, Klaus throws his muscular right leg over my right thigh, tilts my body away from him, and moves the head of his erection to my puckering hole. I break away from the kiss long enough to cry out to the ceiling as he penetrates, as he has done before in these three days.

Guido zooms in close to follow the campaign of the thick cock assaulting, breaching, and conquering, the small hole. Inch by inch the shaft gains entry as I whimper and moan. Then, as my sobs subside when Klaus is deep inside me and has begun to plow me, he moves his hand to palming my belly to hold me in place as he fucks me.

“Mario, look at me, boy. Show the camera your suffering in your eyes,” Guido says to me. I do so, and Klaus, establishing the rhythm of the fuck, laughs.

Guido, who has been moving around us with the camera, taking it all in, goes to the tripod, adjusts the video camera pointed at the couch from a side angle, and turns it on. He strips off his shorts to show that he, at fifty, can still manage a hard, upcurved erection. As he approaches the couch, Klaus turns me, moving to a sitting position at the side of the couch, with me in his lap, facing out, his right hand still palming my belly and his left cupping my chin, holding the back of my head into the hollow of his magnificent chest.

Approaching, Guido reaches down, grasps my ankles, and spreads and raises my legs. He nudges in between my spread thighs and puts himself into position. I cry out again and writhe, as his cock invades me, forcing its way in above Klaus’s buried shaft. Klaus holds steady while Guido, providing the thrust, joins in fucking me and the video camera on the tripod whirs.

The end of day three of the Naples “Man and Boy Nudes” photoshoot.

July, 2019, Vaduz, Liechtenstein

Coming back from the cemetery, I went to the publishing house rather than to the flat Guido and I had shared. I couldn’t face the flat without him yet. It wasn’t much better at the publishing house he ran in Vaduz, with me at his right hand. Liechtenstein provided a forgiving environment for our gay male pornography publishing firm that had arisen out of Guido’s award-winning photography of male nudes that had a pornographic services side for well-heeled patrons.

I didn’t go to my office at the publishing house. I went to Guido’s office instead, walking straight to his desk, trying out his chair. It was my publishing house now. That hadn’t been announced to anyone, including the publishing house employees, but the solicitors had already shown me the terms of Guido’s will. His family had disowned him, so he had returned the favor—and made the provisions of the will airtight. It was mine to do what I liked with, although I couldn’t imagine what that would be other than what it was.

I would have to find another photographer, though, with Guido’s talent and reputation in certain circles. Guido had been the center of the publishing house in every way, electrifyingly vital into his late sixties—right up to his sudden demise. Even at sixty-seven, short, rotund, and wrinkled, he had been able to master me in bed. He also had tolerated my having acquired his fetish. Sometimes we shared fourteen-year-old boys, provided by a Liechtenstein prince, which is why the publishing house was located here. The age of consent here was fourteen.

I would miss him, but life goes on.

I noticed that one of his earlier published glossy photo art books, “Man and Boy Nudes,” rested on his desktop. I hadn’t seen that for years and wondered if he’d just taken it off the shelf to look at again recently or if the book—a early success of ours—had always lived there on the desktop. I opened the book and looked through the photos, starting with one of a hunky Roman soldier sitting on a couch backed by silken draperies and being served wine by a beautiful young chocolate-brown boy in a tunic. As the photos progressed, the man and boy became naked, and the book earned its title of being a contrasting study in nudity of a man and a boy. The poses became sensual, but they never, in this photobook, crossed the line into overt sex. They had crossed the pornography line for some, of course, but that had only added to the book’s commercial success and to the establishment of this publishing house.

What was the name of the man playing the Roman soldier, I wondered. Klaus wasn’t it? Not Roman at all, German. But he looked the part. A gorgeous hunk of man flesh. My eyes went to the boy and followed him through the photos, touching his image here and there with my fingers. He had been fourteen. Off the streets of Rome, his mother Italian but his father a black U.S. serviceman who had not stayed around to raise and guide his son, who had done what he had to do to survive in Italy. That had included selling his body to an Italian photographer for a pornographic photo shoot at the age of fourteen. So many years ago. So much had happened in his life since then.

I wondered what had happened to Klaus. I knew what had happened to the photographer, Guido, and the boy, Mario.

The door opened, and publishing house’s sales department chief, Horst, walked in—and stopped—doing a doubletake when he saw me in Guido’s office and sitting in Guido’s chair. My first thought was that he had been coming in to try the chair out for himself. He was an ambitious man, who had been close to Guido—closer to Guido’s age at sixty than to me as well. He always seemed to be scheming for position. He’d already asked me at the funeral this afternoon if I was staying or if my deputy publisher position would be open. I knew he was actually salivating for Guido’s publisher position. I would be taking that myself, though. This would be my office. I knew who Guido was leaving the publishing house to.

“Oh, Mario,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming to the office today. I expected you to go straight home from the cemetery.”

“Life goes on,” I answered.

“Well, it’s good you’re here,” he said, recovering quickly. “I wondered whether I should cancel this evening’s plans.”

“No, I think not, Horst,” I answered, giving him a smile. “You went to all the trouble to make the arrangements. We’ll continue with those, shall we?”

Horst and the boy were already seated in the gourmet restaurant of the Park-Hotel Sonnenhof when I arrived that evening. Damian was fourteen, well-mannered, from a good local family, Horst assured me. He knew he could, by choice, start in the business at fourteen and wished to do so. He’d had some training but he hadn’t been with a man yet. A prince in Liechtenstein ran a club for well-heeled men all over Europe who had a fetish for teenaged boys and he had a private secondary school and college hosted in the country where he gave a good, free education, room, and board to teenaged boys who serviced his club members in exchange for sponsorship and training. After service here, they could go as high-paid escorts in the glittering capitals of Europe.

I belonged to the club, as had Guido, and Horst had found in Damian an unused boy who wanted to get into the prince’s school. Horst wanted to move up at the publishing house, and had made this arrangement for me even before Guido died to curry favor with me.

Damian was a shy boy at dinner, but he was cooperative and attractive to me and he said all of the right things. He was soft spoken, claimed to fully understand why we were there and what was expected from him, and, although a bit nervous, which I took as an affirming sign of his lack of experience, he showed no sign of arrogance or reluctance. Horst had booked a room at the hotel, which, being connected with the prince, was discreet about such arrangements, and that’s where we went after dinner.

I asked Damian to strip down in the hotel room and move around in the nude for me, and he did so. Horst sat across the room from us and I sat on the end of the bed. Horst had a two cameras, one a professional-quality still shot camera and the other a video camera. Damian’s body was perfectly formed for a fourteen-year-old. Horst took some photos of him in various provocative poses, which gave me both an erection and the beginnings of one of our glossy nude photo books. We would bring him into the publishing house studio for more photos in the ensuing weeks.

I waved him over to me at the bed, and he came to me and knelt down between my spread thighs. I was dressed in formal evening clothes. He unbuttoned my fly, brought out my erection, and gave me head, which was caught on film. Then I stood, raised him up, pivoted him around, and put him on his belly on the bed. He moaned and rocked under me as I pressed my face between his pert butt cheeks and ate him out, opening him up for initiation.

I took the boy’s anal virginity to men with him bent over the bed on his belly, naked, and I covering him from above fully clothed, working my way inside him, with my hands pressed to his upper arms, holding him flat to the bed, as he sobbed and writhed under me. I wore a half mask on my face to obscure identity. All of the men in the prince’s club did this on club nights, more to remind us of the need for privacy than to hide our identities from each other. I chose not to be identified in photos we would be releasing to our subscription service.

Half way through the blow job, though, I stripped off my jacket and shirt, and allowed filming with me bare-chested. I was quite fit and muscular at thirty-two. My milk chocolate brown skin tone against the creaming white of the blond boy would look very good in the photos. We made sure that some of the shots included my dark-brown erection too. I had no reason to be ashamed of that either. Those shots of course showed me working and stretching the small, young virgin’s hole.

Horst got it on both still camera and video. This would go out to a select list of subscription patrons. After I had breeded him, I went over to Horst at the chair across the room, while giving the whimpering boy an opportunity to recover, and Horst and I selected the photos we wanted to use in a glossy photobook and those to send to the subscription service.

Noting my satisfaction, I released Horst then. I stripped down entirely as I returned to the bed. I turned Damian over on his back. He was malleable, and although his eyes were big with concern and awe, he took the cock again without resistance and with just a groan of acceptance. I grasped his ankles, and raised and spread his legs. Nestling in between his thighs, I slowly fed him the cock again. I leaned over him, and flexible lad that he was, he clutched my buttocks in his hands, our foreheads kissed, and our eyes locked on each other’s, as I fucked him a second time.

Afterward, I pulled him up onto the bed, our limbs and arms entwined and we slept the night other than the interludes of the third and fourth fucks.

I was in the bathroom the next morning when room service brought our breakfast in. When I came out, I leaned into the door frame, looking at Damian in the bed. I would have expected him to have been up and to be grazing at the food tray, but he was just lying there on his belly, stretched out, an arm dangling over the side, and looking at me. The look on his face was one of worship and awe.

“Did I—?”

“You did fine,” I said. “You’re a sweet lay.”

“Am I good enough that—?”

“I’ll suggest the prince give you a full scholarship and invite you to his next masked party up at the Berghof. Are you hungry or—?”

“Please. Again,” he murmured

I strode to the bed, climbed onto it, mounted his tail, and fucked him again. He no longer responded as a virgin, rocking his buttocks back into my groin, meeting the cadence of my thrusts. Our breakfast got very, very cold.

Needless to say, for that service rendered and future similar services, Horst Schmidt became the deputy publisher. I would have given him the job anyway. He was the best candidate and I was able to turn him—to have him reporting to me the maneuver attempt of Guido’s family rather than be their spy in the firm, as he had been before. I just had to make sure he continued to understand that he worked for me—not to maneuver his way into my publisher position.