The world is seen from a window, sloping roofs of gray oil-cloth, chimneys in erection, studios dulled by drawn blinds, the darkened garrets, attics hidden from view. The Hotel is in the old part of Paris, bounded on one side by the rue de Cliche, and the other by the rue de Bois. I peer from my room of the hotel overlooking an empty courtyard across at shuttered apartment building, the walls suggestively stained and discolored. All windows closed, save one, thrown wide, although by daylight the interior is not visible. Returning that night after dinner, comparatively early, I turned off the light and left the curtains open. Lapping in a breeze, the drapes seemed to be licking the night air with tentative jabs.
The courtyard below is quite dark, but then, as I gazed out, I saw a light on, in the sole unshuttered apartment opposite. Behind a small ornamental iron-wrought balustraded balcony stands a young man, handsome in the extreme, wearing only a short white dressing-gown in the japonais style, called a 'happy coat', as they call it in the orient. He undid the ribbon-wide belt and exposed himself to me. His nakedness makes me take an sharp intake of breath. Only thirty feet or so away, and he knows I am looking. The windows wide open, he stands framed like a byzantine icon, his nudity gleaming in the dying rays of an angry sunset, and as I looked away saw the Seine, flushed red as if with blood, and the twin gray towers of Notre Dame, almost lost from sight, wrapped in a mantle of orange mist. The youth's hand forms a tunnel, in which he holds his soft pale cock, though too far to quite make out if he is circumcised or not: he starts to rocks his hips, swaying his buttocks forth and back, while his other arm crosses his chest, his nipple between his fingers.
The room is empty, save for an armchair of indeterminate green and curtains of a specific jaundiced yellow. The gentle heaving motions continue, until he gets bored, mired in ennui, and turns away, his orbed ivory buttocks flash in the moonlight and he goes inside, the light goes out, and he is gone. The very next night he encores the performance. And the next night and the next. Sometimes, he returns completely naked sans housecoat, or slipped off one shoulder. Nude, he demonstrates his fascination for his penis. Somedays, soft, somedays, semi-erect, sometimes comparatively inert. But never completely stiff. That night, I dine at Alfini's resturaunt where I am regular.
Alone. Save for a small quartet playing chamber music. I invite a waiter to perform, and order. I eat heartily, drink moderately; an eclair for desert and ask for the check. Steadily I walk home, the sound of a sentimental violin melody still in my ears, accompanies my footfalls, as I make my way through the bittersweet streets. Not to my hotel; but to the adjacent building, for I am fortified, and have courage. And he is waiting. I mount the stoneflight of steps, pass through the glass paneled doors; the concierge asleep. The arabian carpeted floor, gives a little underfoot as I enter the spindly cage-elevator and it rattles, as it takes me to the fourth floor.
There are directions, tessellated tiles, leading me, if my study of the building is correct, the calculation precise; this must be the room. Hardened wood, glistening in patches where the unworn varnish gleams. With my knobbed walking cane, I knock. Once, twice. thrice. I hear a movement within. A bolt is drawn, a chain-latch unshackled, and the golden brass doorhandle rotates, as the door is unlocked, opened half a crack, and I see a strip of face, an inquiring hungry eye looks out, and a whispered breathy voice says; "Who's there?" "A friend..." The door opens wider, the boy I have been watching, dressed in the now too familiar housecoat pokes out his eye, to view me through the crack of the door, and reassured, invites me in. "You are the american artist, who stays across, at the hotel des Etrangers," he says in a smokey toned accent, in his crisp, impeccable but otherworldly English. "Pray enter, m'sieu," he says, in an overly formal but enticing manner.
His hair is tousled, and his forehead covered by a bang of nut-brown glossy hair, hiding his eyes, which he lazily brushes back as if been awakened from sleep, and one fist clutches the folds of the yellow sunflower-adorned robe. The room is small. Patterned wallpaper, velvet cushions strewn on an overstuffed armchair, a mahogany writing desk, with a small, parafine lamp, the mantle glows, wick burning low. A painting on the wall, overtly gilt framed, an embarrassment of imprecise color.Cubist. On a side table there is a basket of fruit, containing two shiny apples and a upward curving banana, strategically placed. "Allow me to take your coat, sir. Please to be seated." I remove the heavy coat that does little to hide my bulk, my top hat is placed with my gloves and cane on the mantle shelf above the fireplace.I look around, the writing desk, tidy, the inkwell, and pens in neat order.
The blotter is stained with the imprint of mirror reversed phrases, but now unintelligible, all is ordered and proper. "You would take a sherry, sir?" he asks politely and adds, "I'm afraid it is all I have." "You have charms, that would soothe a savage beast..." "And, m'sieu is a bete? M'sieu, I hope that is true..." I made a growl, and he smiles. He goes to the walnut inlaid cabinet, and produces a bottle and a louis quatorze wine glass. As he bends over, the robe rises up, and exposed is his peached rump, and hanging below are the two rough plums of his youthful testes, and dangling is the pink penis, with its lavender flared mushroom tip.
Closing the cabinet, with his rear, mine host returns, tiptoeing, walking with easy grace, his hair aureoled in gold, eyes glimmering with blue azurite, pale skin, and the gentle wisps of body hair, emphatically aesthetic, to please his patient guest. A connossieur with time on his hands. The room growing dark, he turns up the mantle, all was hushed as if in a church, he was priest and I the sole mendicant. "Je m'appelle Francois," he says, as way of introduction.
"You live here... alone?" I ask tentatively, as he holds the glass, into which he pours, from a bottle that is large in his hands. His age is about twenty, and gives off an air of bruised innocence. The meagre light casts a mysterious glow on his gentle features. His hair seems darker, his eyes like a cat, his lips moist, as he takes a sip of golden colored wine and then passes it to me as I take my place in the large armchair, and he stands close, the floppy robe he wears, falls loosely, and I can see his smooth chest and the hollowness of the pit of his neck, a glimpse of pearl white shoulder, and it stops, as his slender legs are revealed, and the split of his crotch still hidden, so I reach forward and raise the hem of the robe, until I see the beguiling lengthening penis. His hands go to the floral belt and he is disrobed, a knee raised on the arm of the chair. "Not too sweet...the sherry?" "Delightful..." I stroke the fullness of his inner thigh with its light covering of blond hairs. He leans forward, taking his weight on the arms, and the bang of forelock hair brushes my face like a chinese plumed fan.
He gets up on the chair with me, straddling my legs, and like a well trained man-servant undoes my cravat and unbuttons my shirt. "Such a fine mat of hair.." he says, as he caresses my chest, and works his hands, massaging my taut corded neck muscles. My own arms reach up, around his back and pull him close. My tongue, broad, flat, moist, spreads out over his belly and tastes the male flesh with its tangy sweet softness. My hands slip down, cusping the buttocks, full and firm, and giving. A finger presses against his anus, the portal of pleasure. "Oh, m'sieu..." he gasps. He reaches down, unbuttons the pants flap of my trousers. As in good Darwinian theory, homo habilis has become homo erectus and is now evolved to homo priapus. "Is the monsieur cold? Shall I light a fire?" My answer is a burning kiss on his mouth, and an attempted entrance of his anal heart with my middle finger. My diamond ring, meets his satin flesh ring. He winces. With pleasure. The buried digit bores, wriggles, widens. He groans an oath in French. He is a francophone and I am a francophile.
He pulls away, gets down, kneels on the carpet before me, my erection before him, as tall as his face. He crushes his lips against the veined column. He seems to be suffocating on the heady sexual odor that fills the room. He takes long in and out lunges, bobbing on the end of my velvet soft bulb, taking all into the soft delicate membranes of his mouth. My eyes were now, as I held his face off, for I did not wish to expiate just yet, on his face, my hands holding the oval visage, mouth oped wide, and on his youthful forehead saw a perfect dewdrop of perspiration, that under force of gravity, trickled down into his unworried brow in a silvery rivulet. He looked up at me, with eyes calm, and we heard a cab pass quickly in the sreet outside, and was quickly swallowed up into the entrails of Paris. An ormulu clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour.
The moment was here. He stood before me, his arms by his side in an open, giving, bequeathing posture. I drew him close; against my breast, I could feel a sudden tremor, a warm shiver in his body, the thump-thump of his heart, as I pulled first one thigh, then his other, over mine, so he was positioned thus; my instrument of desire, the swollen organ pressed between two precious butt-cheeks, and let him arch his hips, raise up, and sit down upon my entering member. And as I pushed up, he drew down, and my full fleshsword penetrated the tropical humidity. His sphincter muscles gripping, but accepting. He took the full measure and started to ride, rising and falling, exerting his leg-muscles. And I pressed my hands on his upper hips as he went down, then moved my hands, cupping his buttocks on the up-stroke like the piston of highly charged Daimler engine. He held tight onto my shoulders, as a fulcrum for leverage, and moaned, "Le bon Dieu,...Dieu...." A prayer to the divine, expressively appropriate.
His shadow bouncing high on the ceiling, moving constantly, but I stiff at the center of his universe, he bearing down, falling, rising, both of us in unison, one flesh. He had the unbridled energy of the young, and I had the stamina for a long conjugation. His eyes closed, mine open. A breathless boy, giving all, taking all that was given. And all the time he rubbed hard on his penis, twice as fast as our motion, a rowboat on a storm-tossed sea. "M'sieu le bete...," he murmured, "m'sieu le Monstre..." The pleasure of the penetration beggars description, I would never cum, like this. I would have to bend him over, enter from the rear, and fill him with my spurting sediment. But for now, the monkey on the spit was a reminisce of my careless youth, when I too had performed such feats of sexual dexetrity. The ends of the chairlegs, rockingly bumped on the floor with a rhytmic staccato, that I hoped would not disturb the neighbors beneath.
And then an alien object came into view, through the space between his arm and high-riding thigh, I suddenly observed a small withered woman, encircled with a moth-eaten feather boa, with a crochet widow's shawl and thin black dress, reaching down to her protruding bony ankles, entering from the doorway of the adjacent room. She was thin, bent, emaciated, her face, crow's feet riddled, wrinkles on wrinkles, an embalmed face on one barely living, she was waving her stick, and whacked it across the boy's shoulders. For a time she stood, unmoving, except her lips, twitching, trying to find the form of the ephitets she would hurl. "Francois! Stop! Stop!
Get off the gentleman, you despicable child, and desist that disgusting activity!" she yelled in a shrill whine. The boy rose, and out came my cock, frothing angrily, cheated of it's spoils, and the engorged red blooded mushroom tip stared at me furiously. I had to strangle it to submission, and it fell limp. "Get to your room! And you Monsieur Monstre, leave my apartment immediatement...." The boy looked terrified as the crone hit him again, viciously on his buttocks, leaving a livid weal. Francois grabbed his robe and fled into the other room. He looked back at me, his expression giving mute apology.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I raised my self from the armchair, making a gentlenmanly show of the way I put my phallus back into my trousers, did up my waistcoat and shirt, adjusted my cravat, straightened my coat, ran a hand back through my dishevelled hair, and stood up. Next to a silver crucifix, with the effigy of the Saviour. Far away I could here a clock strike the hour. The overly rouged cheeks in the the white-greyness of her face, remained implacably calm, although her eyes revealed a gruesome loathing, directed at me. With aplomb, I reached my full height, and went to the desk to retrieve my top-hat and lambskin gloves. As I put them on, slowly, lethargically almost, I happened to glance out of the nearby window.
And as I looked out of the window, toward my side of the building, I could see a window open. A youth therein, tres charmant, near-naked; clutching a boyish prick in various states of erection. Languorously looking outward, and looking a little like Francois; he was staring back at me, with an inviting gaze, that I will not disappoint.
I tipped my hat, respectfully to the decrepit woman-skeleton. "Goodnight, madame...goodnight Francois...je m'excuse..."
And I take my leave.I went down the elevator, past the sleeping concierge, down the stoneflight of steps, back onto the street and entered my building with a heady step. This time I take the stairs two at a time. I am learning why Paris is such an enticing place. So many opportunities. So many doors. I knock, and am given entrance.
I saw Francois again, his grand-mere in tow, her arm binding his; I touched my hat; she ignored me, and Francois looked at me, somewhat sheepish.
The courtyard below is quite dark, but then, as I gazed out, I saw a light on, in the sole unshuttered apartment opposite. Behind a small ornamental iron-wrought balustraded balcony stands a young man, handsome in the extreme, wearing only a short white dressing-gown in the japonais style, called a 'happy coat', as they call it in the orient. He undid the ribbon-wide belt and exposed himself to me. His nakedness makes me take an sharp intake of breath. Only thirty feet or so away, and he knows I am looking. The windows wide open, he stands framed like a byzantine icon, his nudity gleaming in the dying rays of an angry sunset, and as I looked away saw the Seine, flushed red as if with blood, and the twin gray towers of Notre Dame, almost lost from sight, wrapped in a mantle of orange mist. The youth's hand forms a tunnel, in which he holds his soft pale cock, though too far to quite make out if he is circumcised or not: he starts to rocks his hips, swaying his buttocks forth and back, while his other arm crosses his chest, his nipple between his fingers.
The room is empty, save for an armchair of indeterminate green and curtains of a specific jaundiced yellow. The gentle heaving motions continue, until he gets bored, mired in ennui, and turns away, his orbed ivory buttocks flash in the moonlight and he goes inside, the light goes out, and he is gone. The very next night he encores the performance. And the next night and the next. Sometimes, he returns completely naked sans housecoat, or slipped off one shoulder. Nude, he demonstrates his fascination for his penis. Somedays, soft, somedays, semi-erect, sometimes comparatively inert. But never completely stiff. That night, I dine at Alfini's resturaunt where I am regular.
Alone. Save for a small quartet playing chamber music. I invite a waiter to perform, and order. I eat heartily, drink moderately; an eclair for desert and ask for the check. Steadily I walk home, the sound of a sentimental violin melody still in my ears, accompanies my footfalls, as I make my way through the bittersweet streets. Not to my hotel; but to the adjacent building, for I am fortified, and have courage. And he is waiting. I mount the stoneflight of steps, pass through the glass paneled doors; the concierge asleep. The arabian carpeted floor, gives a little underfoot as I enter the spindly cage-elevator and it rattles, as it takes me to the fourth floor.
There are directions, tessellated tiles, leading me, if my study of the building is correct, the calculation precise; this must be the room. Hardened wood, glistening in patches where the unworn varnish gleams. With my knobbed walking cane, I knock. Once, twice. thrice. I hear a movement within. A bolt is drawn, a chain-latch unshackled, and the golden brass doorhandle rotates, as the door is unlocked, opened half a crack, and I see a strip of face, an inquiring hungry eye looks out, and a whispered breathy voice says; "Who's there?" "A friend..." The door opens wider, the boy I have been watching, dressed in the now too familiar housecoat pokes out his eye, to view me through the crack of the door, and reassured, invites me in. "You are the american artist, who stays across, at the hotel des Etrangers," he says in a smokey toned accent, in his crisp, impeccable but otherworldly English. "Pray enter, m'sieu," he says, in an overly formal but enticing manner.
His hair is tousled, and his forehead covered by a bang of nut-brown glossy hair, hiding his eyes, which he lazily brushes back as if been awakened from sleep, and one fist clutches the folds of the yellow sunflower-adorned robe. The room is small. Patterned wallpaper, velvet cushions strewn on an overstuffed armchair, a mahogany writing desk, with a small, parafine lamp, the mantle glows, wick burning low. A painting on the wall, overtly gilt framed, an embarrassment of imprecise color.Cubist. On a side table there is a basket of fruit, containing two shiny apples and a upward curving banana, strategically placed. "Allow me to take your coat, sir. Please to be seated." I remove the heavy coat that does little to hide my bulk, my top hat is placed with my gloves and cane on the mantle shelf above the fireplace.I look around, the writing desk, tidy, the inkwell, and pens in neat order.
The blotter is stained with the imprint of mirror reversed phrases, but now unintelligible, all is ordered and proper. "You would take a sherry, sir?" he asks politely and adds, "I'm afraid it is all I have." "You have charms, that would soothe a savage beast..." "And, m'sieu is a bete? M'sieu, I hope that is true..." I made a growl, and he smiles. He goes to the walnut inlaid cabinet, and produces a bottle and a louis quatorze wine glass. As he bends over, the robe rises up, and exposed is his peached rump, and hanging below are the two rough plums of his youthful testes, and dangling is the pink penis, with its lavender flared mushroom tip.
Closing the cabinet, with his rear, mine host returns, tiptoeing, walking with easy grace, his hair aureoled in gold, eyes glimmering with blue azurite, pale skin, and the gentle wisps of body hair, emphatically aesthetic, to please his patient guest. A connossieur with time on his hands. The room growing dark, he turns up the mantle, all was hushed as if in a church, he was priest and I the sole mendicant. "Je m'appelle Francois," he says, as way of introduction.
"You live here... alone?" I ask tentatively, as he holds the glass, into which he pours, from a bottle that is large in his hands. His age is about twenty, and gives off an air of bruised innocence. The meagre light casts a mysterious glow on his gentle features. His hair seems darker, his eyes like a cat, his lips moist, as he takes a sip of golden colored wine and then passes it to me as I take my place in the large armchair, and he stands close, the floppy robe he wears, falls loosely, and I can see his smooth chest and the hollowness of the pit of his neck, a glimpse of pearl white shoulder, and it stops, as his slender legs are revealed, and the split of his crotch still hidden, so I reach forward and raise the hem of the robe, until I see the beguiling lengthening penis. His hands go to the floral belt and he is disrobed, a knee raised on the arm of the chair. "Not too sweet...the sherry?" "Delightful..." I stroke the fullness of his inner thigh with its light covering of blond hairs. He leans forward, taking his weight on the arms, and the bang of forelock hair brushes my face like a chinese plumed fan.
He gets up on the chair with me, straddling my legs, and like a well trained man-servant undoes my cravat and unbuttons my shirt. "Such a fine mat of hair.." he says, as he caresses my chest, and works his hands, massaging my taut corded neck muscles. My own arms reach up, around his back and pull him close. My tongue, broad, flat, moist, spreads out over his belly and tastes the male flesh with its tangy sweet softness. My hands slip down, cusping the buttocks, full and firm, and giving. A finger presses against his anus, the portal of pleasure. "Oh, m'sieu..." he gasps. He reaches down, unbuttons the pants flap of my trousers. As in good Darwinian theory, homo habilis has become homo erectus and is now evolved to homo priapus. "Is the monsieur cold? Shall I light a fire?" My answer is a burning kiss on his mouth, and an attempted entrance of his anal heart with my middle finger. My diamond ring, meets his satin flesh ring. He winces. With pleasure. The buried digit bores, wriggles, widens. He groans an oath in French. He is a francophone and I am a francophile.
He pulls away, gets down, kneels on the carpet before me, my erection before him, as tall as his face. He crushes his lips against the veined column. He seems to be suffocating on the heady sexual odor that fills the room. He takes long in and out lunges, bobbing on the end of my velvet soft bulb, taking all into the soft delicate membranes of his mouth. My eyes were now, as I held his face off, for I did not wish to expiate just yet, on his face, my hands holding the oval visage, mouth oped wide, and on his youthful forehead saw a perfect dewdrop of perspiration, that under force of gravity, trickled down into his unworried brow in a silvery rivulet. He looked up at me, with eyes calm, and we heard a cab pass quickly in the sreet outside, and was quickly swallowed up into the entrails of Paris. An ormulu clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour.
The moment was here. He stood before me, his arms by his side in an open, giving, bequeathing posture. I drew him close; against my breast, I could feel a sudden tremor, a warm shiver in his body, the thump-thump of his heart, as I pulled first one thigh, then his other, over mine, so he was positioned thus; my instrument of desire, the swollen organ pressed between two precious butt-cheeks, and let him arch his hips, raise up, and sit down upon my entering member. And as I pushed up, he drew down, and my full fleshsword penetrated the tropical humidity. His sphincter muscles gripping, but accepting. He took the full measure and started to ride, rising and falling, exerting his leg-muscles. And I pressed my hands on his upper hips as he went down, then moved my hands, cupping his buttocks on the up-stroke like the piston of highly charged Daimler engine. He held tight onto my shoulders, as a fulcrum for leverage, and moaned, "Le bon Dieu,...Dieu...." A prayer to the divine, expressively appropriate.
His shadow bouncing high on the ceiling, moving constantly, but I stiff at the center of his universe, he bearing down, falling, rising, both of us in unison, one flesh. He had the unbridled energy of the young, and I had the stamina for a long conjugation. His eyes closed, mine open. A breathless boy, giving all, taking all that was given. And all the time he rubbed hard on his penis, twice as fast as our motion, a rowboat on a storm-tossed sea. "M'sieu le bete...," he murmured, "m'sieu le Monstre..." The pleasure of the penetration beggars description, I would never cum, like this. I would have to bend him over, enter from the rear, and fill him with my spurting sediment. But for now, the monkey on the spit was a reminisce of my careless youth, when I too had performed such feats of sexual dexetrity. The ends of the chairlegs, rockingly bumped on the floor with a rhytmic staccato, that I hoped would not disturb the neighbors beneath.
And then an alien object came into view, through the space between his arm and high-riding thigh, I suddenly observed a small withered woman, encircled with a moth-eaten feather boa, with a crochet widow's shawl and thin black dress, reaching down to her protruding bony ankles, entering from the doorway of the adjacent room. She was thin, bent, emaciated, her face, crow's feet riddled, wrinkles on wrinkles, an embalmed face on one barely living, she was waving her stick, and whacked it across the boy's shoulders. For a time she stood, unmoving, except her lips, twitching, trying to find the form of the ephitets she would hurl. "Francois! Stop! Stop!
Get off the gentleman, you despicable child, and desist that disgusting activity!" she yelled in a shrill whine. The boy rose, and out came my cock, frothing angrily, cheated of it's spoils, and the engorged red blooded mushroom tip stared at me furiously. I had to strangle it to submission, and it fell limp. "Get to your room! And you Monsieur Monstre, leave my apartment immediatement...." The boy looked terrified as the crone hit him again, viciously on his buttocks, leaving a livid weal. Francois grabbed his robe and fled into the other room. He looked back at me, his expression giving mute apology.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I raised my self from the armchair, making a gentlenmanly show of the way I put my phallus back into my trousers, did up my waistcoat and shirt, adjusted my cravat, straightened my coat, ran a hand back through my dishevelled hair, and stood up. Next to a silver crucifix, with the effigy of the Saviour. Far away I could here a clock strike the hour. The overly rouged cheeks in the the white-greyness of her face, remained implacably calm, although her eyes revealed a gruesome loathing, directed at me. With aplomb, I reached my full height, and went to the desk to retrieve my top-hat and lambskin gloves. As I put them on, slowly, lethargically almost, I happened to glance out of the nearby window.
And as I looked out of the window, toward my side of the building, I could see a window open. A youth therein, tres charmant, near-naked; clutching a boyish prick in various states of erection. Languorously looking outward, and looking a little like Francois; he was staring back at me, with an inviting gaze, that I will not disappoint.
I tipped my hat, respectfully to the decrepit woman-skeleton. "Goodnight, madame...goodnight Francois...je m'excuse..."
And I take my leave.I went down the elevator, past the sleeping concierge, down the stoneflight of steps, back onto the street and entered my building with a heady step. This time I take the stairs two at a time. I am learning why Paris is such an enticing place. So many opportunities. So many doors. I knock, and am given entrance.
I saw Francois again, his grand-mere in tow, her arm binding his; I touched my hat; she ignored me, and Francois looked at me, somewhat sheepish.
