Scent E-Book

Le Fou

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 625

Beschreibung

It is a special scent that no one who has experienced, smelled and presumably intensely enjoyed it will ever forget. They remember for the rest of their lives when, where, how and why they felt this particular odour for the first time. The experiences that stick in our memory are those that were perceived with several senses at the same time. For this reason, those who dream of a new and comparable experience or are able to revive such scenes from their memory are perhaps more likely to be enthusiastic. All others are advised to think about why such stories stimulate their imagination. Only those who dare, win. No risk - no fun, is the motto.

Leseprobe

Contents

Prologue

Steam

The scent of sweat and leather

He

Hathor

Succession

Tally-ho

Vampire games

Poet

Chocolates

Play

The courtship

Penalty

Goose pile

Ira

Double bet

Close combat

Silence

Impossible

Almost necessary

Helping out

Team spirit

Dating

Curiosity

Let it be

Essence

Mario

Don’t forget me

Resolute

Persuasion

For Sonja

Miscellaneous

A Paris judgment

Ale

Lesson

Weight Ranger

The bluff

Consolation prize

Gallop

Whipped cream

Branding

Southern Belle

Finder's fee

Epilogue

Prologue

The turmoil cleared only slowly. The defeated, bloody victims lay in heaps, slaughtered by sword, spear and arrows. The reaper had fought his way through a wild horde and, thanks to his swordsmanship, had managed to remain unharmed. Three corpses already lined his path through the enemy line.

The others had dodged, only one young man was still bravely fighting back. Out of the corner of his eye, the warrior saw that the battle was coming to an end, so he struck his opponent with a powerful blow, shattering his leather shield and with it the last remaining reserves of strength he could muster.

With a swift stroke of the sword, he swept the weapon out of the stumbling man's hand, pushed him back with the pommel and pointed the tip of the blade at the defeated man's neck. With no way out, the boy fell to his knees, expecting the deathblow. The warrior holstered his sword on his belt, dropped his shield and drew his dagger, a double-edged Damascus steel blade about 20 cm long with a gemstone in the hilt. Fearlessly, the defeated man looked his opponent in the eye, ready to die.

With two swift cuts, he shredded the straps of the leather chest protector and continued on the side until the young man's upper body was defenselessly at his mercy. He looked confused as the blade caused his leather apron to fall, leaving him bare down to his boots in the scorching midday sun. The noise of the battle had died down.

Behind the boulders that bore witness to the last battle, they stood alone opposite each other. A half-height, rounded boulder was probably intended to serve as a slaughtering bench for the victor, the lad suspected, because the warrior grabbed him by his short mop of hair and pulled him there, forcing him belly-first over the makeshift altar, apparently to sacrifice him to whatever god.

Ready for the execution, he called one last time to his own to protect him. He was unaware that the warrior himself had stripped off his armor, along with all his weapons except the dagger, and was also striding to the place of execution in his high-laced combat sandals. The young man felt the hard hand in his hair, forcing his head down, with the blade at his throat, announcing his fate.

Then the victor spread his thighs and he feared for his manhood, for the call had preceded these enemies to castrate their captives before executing them. The warrior fist tightened in his hair and he was surprised by a sudden, sharp pain that shot through his whole body.

He missed the unmistakable smell of fresh blood, only then did he realize that it was not the blade that had cut or stabbed him, but that his conqueror had conquered him again with another powerful weapon, penetrating him relentlessly. His victor had penetrated him, had sunk his cock fully into him and thus degraded him to a personal body slave, the fate of the vanquished, who were not sold or slaughtered, but earmarked for other services. The warrior had stung him to the hilt, staked him and thus enslaved and branded him.

It took him a while to regain control of his senses, to understand his fate of having to serve at will and whim, only for the unbridled pleasure of his owner. If he wanted to go on living, he had to submit or he would die now that the warrior had finished pleasuring himself. Perhaps without this choice, or was he even facing the fate of a eunuch, not an uncommon choice for the victor at his young age in those days, when they were sold for far more than servants on the slave market.

However, if he gave his master enough pleasure when his boy toy made him forget the intrigues of his harem wives, his life would be different, but he would still be in possession of his manhood, even if not in all situations. The conqueror had thought him brave and clever enough to consider these options before asking: "Do you want to obey or die?

The answer decided how he would live or at least how he would live in future. Too young to die, he accepted the job that was offered to him. Willingly, he met his opponent's further attacks, obediently allowed his sword to pierce him, conquered himself again and experienced the strength of the male anointing as a servant in close combat. He surrendered completely and began to take pleasure in defeating his rider, gradually sapping his strength to continue attacking.

The warrior had remained active until he was completely exhausted, before allowing the slave to wash him and feed him refreshments, water and food from the slave's supply. He had accepted the subjugation, as well as the role of interim sheath for the mighty sword of the warrior, which was cared for there.

Steam

The scent of sweat and leather

Fresh sweat is completely odorless, yet you don't forget: indelibly imprinted in my brain stem, it triggers that memory that irresistibly always leads me to the same result, the feeling of being there again, traveling back in time.

This special fragrance mixture of men's sweat and leather can be attributed to several sources. The brain remembers best everything that is captured by several sensory organs at the same time, such as feeling, tasting, smelling, seeing and hearing and in several nuances that can transport us mentally to any number of different places. Like in 'Groundhog Day', this kind of thing occurs to us.

The soccer dressing room, a special haven for boys' scents and foot sweat, paired with the earthy smell of fresh grass, rain-damp kit, camphor lotion and a slightly metallic smell of blood in the background due to the visible traces of aluminum stubble on shin skin, is a sensory experience that hardly any woman has ever really enjoyed. In fact, a whiff of this perfume in the hallway when the boy comes home from training is enough for any mother.

The weight room next door, with the straps and weights on the machines and the athletes' body belts and joint protectors, provides a further aroma. The smells from the adjoining sauna with relaxation room and massage table mix to form a whole, an aroma cocktail that unconsciously generates testosterone. The androgen with an ethological effect on involuntary imposing behavior, fighting behavior and the urge to mate.

The subtle smell of leather, usually artificial leather, in the sauna relaxation room complements this special eau de parfum d'athlètes in the active recovery phase after training, which inevitably and indelibly settles there. Combining excitement, play and fun, like a child's surprise egg, this trio of fragrances shapes the brain stem and puts the athlete in a certain mood. This rare blend of fragrances will never exist in a woman's wardrobe, just as every perfume unfolds differently on every skin and smells differently.

Although women's soccer can be admired today in professional sport with a quality of passion, wit and impressive technique that would have left our grandfathers stunned, other pheromones are at work in women's soccer, sex pheromones such as A Androstenone, a breakdown product of testosterone, also form boars in the testicles, which explains the difference understandably, but not quite correctly.

It is not the stench of old sweat, which is disgusting and repulsive in dives, it is the special perfume of the winners as well as the losers who have competed with all their strength and physical ability. The scent of the team as well as the individual athlete who has dedicated himself to his weights, his run, his boxing ball or perhaps his jump. Men's sweat is a special, mostly stimulating pheromone.

Many women enjoy seeing their lover wrapped up in it, probably more because of the more aggressive lovemaking than because of the scent, which only signals readiness, like a kind of rutting exhalation. Blind tests with underarm perspiration proved a certain connection with this, albeit dependent on the female cycle phase. Their instinct, influenced by this, tends to lead women to victory, according to an as yet unproven theory dating back to prehistoric times.

The devotion of many a man to the modern manifestation of this aspect is fascinating, for example leather jackets for unsportsmanlike managers, to which they pay homage in their free time, with T-shirts with pithy prints and branded jeans. The associated smell of gasoline from a bike often becomes ridiculous in the case of an asparagus Tarzan office biker.

The macho mask probably only works if the lady's alcohol level is no longer recommendable and she has an irrepressible desire to finally be knocked out, no matter by whom. Otherwise, the whole thing serves more as a deterrent than as a successful pick-up method, even if the barely subliminal deodorant advertisements rave about it.

The comparable fragrance in old saunas with worn-out resting beds has nothing in common with the athlete's aroma, but still has its charm. Despite all the airing, cleaning and disinfecting, these indelible smells combine with the velvety wood notes of the sauna cabin, various infusion additives and the current vapors of the people present.

But in between, there is often another aroma that does not exist in women's saunas, where the potpourri of body oils, skin creams and perfumes transforms into a cloud of fragrances that is also impossible to combat. The last top note to be perceived has become rare and very seldom, remaining unmistakably in the memory, especially when it used to be permitted only as a men's sauna and it was still frowned upon for men and women to hug and hold each other while sweating, having fun, relaxing together and refraining from anything else nefariously piquant for the sake of good manners.

There are still a few dinosaurs of this former genre, mainly those that could never be completely renovated and refurbished due to a lack of public influx and income. A striking difference can be seen there. These establishments are rather spartanly furnished.

Tables, chairs, resting beds in a few curtained alcoves and a bar, mostly run by the owners themselves, often elderly women or their relatives, make up the furnishings alongside a sauna cabin, showers and a cold-water pool. If you're lucky, there's a small garden next to it, which offers a certain degree of privacy from the neighbors with a 2.5 m high fence.

Sometimes in a small adjoining room, actually a cabinet, with at most a massage table, shelf and washbasin, where a freelancer works a few hours a week, depending on the clientele. If the establishment is affiliated with a mostly lowerclass sports team, there are often agreements regarding usage and opening hours, which can allow these saunas and the masseurs to survive.

Men among themselves, especially from such small clubs or hobby teams, enjoy this service of body and sanitary injury care among themselves, the profane physiotherapy of the worker, where they don't want to know any pain. It's a purely male affair, which they rave about in company. Mutual respect for the façade of invincible masculinity dominates the mood.

Although, as always, there are also loudmouth who trumpet their unsurpassable skills, this quickly changes because real tough guys think nothing of them and a topic such as a last game, a goal scene or a team line-up can immediately trigger far more heated debates.

In addition to the sauna, other visitors appreciate the peace and quiet, the feeling of being able to laze around unobserved, which often attracts pensioners fleeing from the best of wives at home. Many a man can be seen not being able to walk past a mirror without admiring his muscles, trained to look their best - Narcissus always sends his regards.

The show-off behavior of athletes is obviously a socially tolerated form, like the way women dress up at events, where they get all dressed up, primarily for the sake of the other ladies. They hardly admit it, but they need much more time for a meeting between women than for a date, for example.

The exception among the guys in the men's sauna are those who either live in their own world or enviously admire the muscles of their counterparts.

There are various reasons for this: Some because of their muscles and appearance, others because of deeply rooted inner characteristics, which are based more on the x chromosome, the 23rd pair, the Gonosome, which is unique to each person. In purely scientific terms, the male Y chromosome can be seen as a reduced X chromosome, which is also visually missing a quarter of the X strokes.

Certain athletes simply look good because of the muscular demands of their sport, such as most martial artists in the lighter weight classes, rowers, gymnasts, skaters, swimmers or sprinters alongside volleyball players. Their sport requires the powerful use of large muscle groups such as the thighs and buttocks. This shapes the shape of the athlete, at least the more voluminous muscles in the buttocks, which can be optimally seen in the 100 meter run of the world champions.

Some footballers also belong to this group, figures like professional athletes of every profession, but they are extremely rare in these saunas. At most, members of sports clubs in the lower leagues are represented there, just as the masseur in question cannot make ends meet with the income from these saunas and only earns a tax-free extra income, because only cash is king.

My favorite guy was a former Romanian cyclist, a closet of a guy who seemed to have paws the size of toilet lids. His strength during the massage hurt so much at first that I could have screamed, but over time my body got used to the hard grips and my initially unruly muscles later wallowed comfortably under his fingers. As time went on, my body began to float on air, which few of his successors were able to achieve. Only the 70-year-old masseur of the Austrian national team had ever been better, who felt and removed every hardening of a muscle group or mini-injury on my leg muscles with an expert hand and immensely sensitive fingers.

This smell at the masseur's, despite the fresh sheets on the mattress, complements the smell in the relaxation rooms, it smells fresher, more fragrant, more oily. Relaxation here, a certain tension there, despite the tired, lolling figures, damp with fresh sweat as they rest after the heat of the infusion. The curtains in front of the loungers in the alcoves visually separate those who prefer to relax undisturbed from those who just want to catch their breath, to vaporize. Depending on the time of day, the rooms emptied out until the last group that had recognized the sauna as a real treat remained. The conversations died away, the night had dampened the vigor and bustling liveliness, two, three, four guests remained among themselves. For the most part, peace and quiet prevailed, even at the bar where guys were still snoozing, just as the stragglers from the last infusion were sweating it out in the relaxation room.

I dozed off and only woke up about 10 minutes later to a noise that I couldn't place at first. I doubted it was coming from the massage room because my favorite had already left hours ago after my session, which had made me fall asleep afterwards. I listened curiously and suddenly understood what the scene was. The next cubicle was occupied and two guys were whispering there. The curtain was slightly open at the foot end, visibly just a crack.

I quietly crept into a favorable angle to spy inside, ready to disappear immediately should a door or even the curtain open if the two should become aware. Fascinated, I watched them as both bodies moved parallel to each other until I realized the true cause: Both had their boners protruding from the middle of their bodies, both were handsome guys, footballers, I thought I remembered. The taller athlete began to turn the lithe-looking shorter one onto his stomach and caress his pretty ass as if it were a woman.

Their quiet voices remained unintelligible as they only whispered or breathed into each other's ears. My own member reacted immediately, just as my thoughts seemed to be fixed, as an eavesdropper on the wall, as an exposed voyeur, as Peeping Tom. I tried to instinctively guess whether someone would come now, surprise me, kneeling with my boner at an odd angle towards the alcove.

The fascination of live porn captivated me. The tantalizingly slow pampering of the buttocks, the moment when I saw the striker getting ready to take the penalty, will stay with me forever, like a film that can be rewound on demand. My position, half-left from the foot of the couch, allowed the best camera view for my eyes, which were staring at the scene.

When the active man made the move to take his wife, I almost moaned at the same time as his partner, the lad who felt his rider rising. I quickly pulled my hand from my erect cock, which had made its own way there, because I feared that if a third person entered, I would immediately be exposed as a horny woodpecker. So I held my breath and waited for the special things that were inevitably about to happen.

The act lasted for several minutes until the gentleman had finished riding his female, lying exhausted on top of him and panting softly with exertion. He involuntarily showed me his ass, an equally handsome part of his body, as my hardon immediately attested, under the striker's narrow hips. I quickly slipped into my cubicle when I noticed that the two of them had finished their game and were preparing to leave, disappearing into the group shower.

I could still hear the striker saying goodbye, but I didn't dare to get up and leave the relaxation room because my hard-on was still sticking half stiffly up in the air. The new scent of sweat, sperm, leather and sex had taken hold. Male sex, mind you, with a musky tone and a slight gamey smell. I was sure I would never be able to forget it again.

I dozed off again, having nice dreams, until suddenly something startled me awake. Someone was kneeling above me, grabbing my hands and holding them tightly. His sex was lying on my back, his head immobilized by his knees. He crossed my arms, held them with his and I heard loud and clear: "Voyeurs are a special kind of people. Your curiosity should be satisfied".

I had no chance of escaping the consequences. The guy methodically spanked my ass, obviously it was the one who had been mounted before who worked on my defenseless, wet bottom while my hard-on swelled up again. "Come on, just shout all together, then we'll celebrate your first gang-bang together and they'll chastise you, my dear, even better than I can".

See's voice had become softer and softer, as if he was giving me the chance to have it out with him alone. Without pause, he pounded my ass, reddening my cheeks until they danced and twitched, my ass began to glow. It was clear that I wasn't going to get loud; with the rest of the remaining mostly older men, I would probably have been a treat as a young lad.

I was afraid that otherwise 3 or 4 guys with my shamefully reddened ass and hard-on would have taken me with relish as a female substitute, as a city festival and beer tent conversation for the next few months, as he was now preparing to show me. He used the breaks to eavesdrop. It seemed better to him to ride a willing boy than to share me with strangers at an early stage.

When the voices outside began to rise, apparently the next sauna session was planned, he paused briefly until the door closed and someone started the infusion, as the applauding murmurs proved. He continued the hard strokes with pauses unperturbed, especially when the applause resounded from the sauna cabin. Then he started a crescendo that made me lose sight and hearing, and I just rolled around as a receiving ass under his paws.

That gave me the rest, my ass glowed and burned as he turned me over and knelt on my stomach, interlacing his fingers with mine, pulling my arms up to the edge of the bed. I lay there defenseless at his mercy as he forced his erection into my mouth, music blaring: "Blowjob for me," he demanded, his moving hips over my chest leaving me no alternative. I did what I had never wanted to do before, play the recorder, for minutes without pause, until he heard the infusion moan a second time, turned me onto my stomach again and delivered his own with the applause from outside. He clapped hard until there was silence in the sauna too. Then he mercilessly shoved his cock up my ass, took my rosette with a quick jerk, sank himself into me inches deep and lay still.

My panting left him cold, the tightness and moist heat inside me fascinated him, but he gave me time to get used to him. The fact that I showed no inclination to scream proved to him that I had understood. Either I would become his - or everyone's sweetheart and it was up to me alone to decide. He completed his entry when I felt his pubic hair against my ass cheeks.

Again he stretched my hands upwards, wrapped his thighs around mine and began to take me defenseless in this 5-point fixation. His cock was a stake in my ass and he wordlessly urged me to follow his movements with gentle pressure as he began to thrust gently into me. He was clearly enjoying it, just as I felt a strange sensation. If I hadn't paid attention to his hard-on at first, closing my eyes as he forced me to pleasure him orally, I now felt a bulging stick working inside me.

Voluminous, powerful and slow, it moved in a steady beat inside me and gave me the feeling of being completely at his mercy. "A man's cock in a boy's ass," he whispered in my ear as he continued to thrust. "You're going to feel what you've seen from the side now, voyeur. Isn't that great? Experiencing what the victim experienced before"?

The ride slowly became faster, more violent, rougher. Irresistibly he buried himself in me, hard, thrusting deep inside me until I involuntarily accepted his rhythm. Without giving me a chance, he took what he seemed to need, complete power over a boy's ass, which he worked with his piston, making me moan until I realized that I was getting hornier and hornier, submitting with the undeniable feeling that I was somehow enjoying it.

He was noticeably approaching his climax, judging by his increasingly uncontrolled movements. He seemed to become even more voluminous, even plumper, drilling himself irresistibly into me and flooding my ass with his semen with his violent outpouring. He gushed into me for seconds, glowing hot. As this was completely unfamiliar, it also made me cum, so that I surprisingly came too.

He hadn't yet finished exuding when the applause from the sauna echoed for the ladies' donation. I could feel the semen, the guy inside me who had conquered me, who had satisfied himself inside me. I already knew the smell of both of us from before, but now it was unforgettable. When the door to the sauna opened and the clique slipped languidly out to the shower and cold water basin, he turned me towards the curtain so that I, in the spooning position, his cock inside me, would greet any random visitors.

His right hand played with my semi-hard-on. He pointed it at the door like a gun barrel and breathed into my ear: "The first person who looks in and opens the curtain can suck you off if he wants to, or do whatever he prefers to you as a faggot. It's up to you to come out".

I trembled at what he was feeling and enjoying with his cock. When two of them entered the relaxation room, they spoke a language I couldn't understand. They whispered politely as our drawn curtain asked for international silence. For minutes in the spoon, fingers playing with my cock, the reawakening hard-on in my ass, I became more and more nervous, which was transferred to the footballer behind me, whose cock had once again reached its full power and seemed to fill me even more. With difficulty, I was able to prevent my body from craving him again, from stretching out towards him, provoking him, testing his strength in me once more.

The guy seemed to enjoy it, moving gently but firmly, starting to masturbate me until I finally came between his fingers. In the meantime, he had turned under me so that my own juice shot onto my chest. He laughed, rubbed it into my face and forced me to suck on his cum-soaked fingers before turning me back around.

At last the other two left the room and he took me again with all his strength, lay on top of me, pushed me into the imitation leather mattress and rode me over hill and dale towards the castle, which he obviously intended to conquer. However, in time, he took me to another paradise, as I felt. Still a little hesitant, he turned me onto my back without leaving me, spread my thighs and lay on top of me in the missionary position, lifted my right leg and took me, shifting sideways.

He turned me back, lifted both legs over his shoulders and masturbated me again. He spread my semen on his chest with his right hand and let me lick his hand while he knelt and took my knees in the crook of his arm. Gentle, yet extremely powerful, voluminous, he impaled me so that I felt every inch of him inside me. He took his time for a long time, while I threatened to die of delight, until he finally let himself go and conquered me as his woman, intense, strong, passionate and hot.

Finally, he looked deep into my eyes as he wordlessly said: "It's your turn now"! I experienced his orgasm deep inside me while he fixed me with his gaze. He stayed on top of me for a long time, then he whispered: "You can keep it to yourself, I'm not going to out you, that's your decision alone, dear Ida. But I still think you're a typical case for Ida, which means in the ass.

You will need it, you will get it back. It's up to you whether you want to please more than one person, putting your sweet secret at risk. Or whether you call me when your panties itch. It doesn't have to be here, where it's hot, but very dangerous in this respect.

You can't shout out your lust here without attracting accomplices, even though it was on the tip of your tongue. I could empathize with that. Your sweet ass needs a firm hand from time to time that isn't afraid to redden it, we both know that very well. I'll offer it to you, Ida, you just send a text message, you want to meet Ida again and we'll arrange a time and place.

I know a very old belt maker, who still learned the extinct trade, who can make a special strap with which I will create a special finish on your pretty buttocks, I promise. You will obey if I promise to solve the case for Ida regularly, to educate you with it.

I'll never forget that special smell of male sweat, semen and leather, just as I'll never forget my initiation by the six-man the lad played in his team, as with me, in a different role. We left the rest room separately, no one had noticed anything. I left without anyone having a chance to see my bottom and the painting on it.

We went on to play indoor soccer quite often, passionately and intensively - but preferably afterwards, he wanted a date with his Ida in my somewhat remote apartment, where he made me feel the other smell, that of leather on bare skin, even more frequently and far more intensely.

He

"Self-confidence, useful looks and a hint of power, money or both - these are the scents in the pheromone victory march for one, no, for almost every woman. The funny thing is: the more of each, even if it's just the prepotency of a preppy guy with no education and a reasonably pretty body, the more it attracts women. Incomprehensible for all rational men who don't want to admit that they can only remain third winners.

Torsten is my name: I know from experience, because - look at me - what woman with a brain would fall for me"? So it was written, to the author without his picture.

On the one hand, this was a very interesting realization, it popped into my head. I was born a Konrad, a vif and very athletic, but not tall and therefore out of the line of fire, out of the sights of the young ladies, I had never given it a second's thought. On the other hand, I lived with it perfectly: no fixed commitment, no having to calculate expenses for ladies I didn't want to voluntarily exchange for a possible chance of sex.

Whether a girl of the trade who made an effort or a so-called relationship who was coy even after expensive dinners and visits to the opera was the better choice for a young-at-heart, mature man remained an open question and nothing could convince me to follow the canonical path of relationship theory. Both groups had excellent single women, some of whom only implicitly promised what others actually delivered.

However, I was aware of the immense difficulties of getting rid of a representative of this conservative species from the group in question in the foreseeable event of a problem. This led to an interesting debate. The notorious bachelor, as my ear had picked up the rumored description of my person, was classified as follows: fixed income but lacking heart, with a lack of talent for the constantly demanded subordination to the psycho and gambling games of a woman in search of her first unemployed and then service-free livelihood in money.

With the option of throwing an heir in return if it cannot be prevented because otherwise there will be no reward. One litter or two brats, it doesn't matter in the end. The shackles of science are so much stronger than those of love, which is also very fleeting and can dissipate overnight like damp air, like fog, like the fog candles called feigned intimate love.

I didn't have the slightest problem with not having to feed any offspring, because the few times of a possible pregnancy all ended with a smile that always froze when I started the old game of asking the father, with a cuckoo call and the phrase from Roman law: Mater semper certa est. The official transmission of Judaism only through the mother has been based on the same foundation for thousands of years.

Since then, a timeless mnemonic has applied to all innocent children in the world, whose fathers, estimated by statisticians worldwide to account for 10 to 30 % of all cases, depending on the duration of the marriage up to birth, have hardly slept in the bed of the woman giving birth every day. These researchers used irrefutable and stable basic data from various sources.

My friends were always pretty, slim, often sporty-looking, quite vif and they had one thing in common: they liked to take my ATM card 'for emergencies', unaware that none of them ever got the right code. So in a financial emergency, without my presence, the card could only be used to open the door and only if it was unlocked. The evil ATM would swallow the card - at the banker's desired blowjob - greedy, insatiable and always ready for it.

So I regularly lived in a very satisfying relationship for about 2 to 3 weeks, which included fun, games and excitement alongside my everyday working life, until either money, see the ATM regulation mentioned above, leisure stress or too little - usually also financial - attention for the self-proclaimed goddess of pleasure and joy put an end to it. In between, I was asked to pay for these special services on an hourly basis for my sporting and sexual activities, i.e. sheet sports.

Every relationship that lasted longer than three weeks was a financial success, a real stroke of luck for the financial leisure budget, because the intensive workload never ended for me, which in turn was a basic requirement for financing both options. They say that a good girl doesn't take money, but as we all know, she demands money of a different kind. The time for expected, expensive gifts may come a little later, but it is very quickly apparent if the desire to incorporate as a subordinate spouse is not in the foreground.

Therefore, the free sex life can only go on for so long before the Holden realizes that no other ring would ever adorn a finger than such a muscle would adorn his boner. There was only one kind of exception, but it had to be treated with particular caution: wives, i.e. green widows.

They were either blessed with jerks, who they often tried to swap for me, or they took what they could get in order to use a surrogate partner for the tedium of the marriage bed. This at a cost for which an honest whore would never lift a finger, let alone stretch one.

Often my own husband was no longer wanted for mating, all attempts to bring life back into the marriage bed, into marital sex, failed, so that my endeavor was desired, but associated with high risk, as already described. Ergo an option only for business trip sex, never for a liaison close to home. Bareback ride to Greek climes, English conversation, not to mention the use of French, enriched such adventures enormously.

This kind of sailor's life with a married bride in every port had an immense appeal, although in my case airport would fit better, as would the term pilot, although I flew on anything whose hull seemed excitingly rigged to me. The real attraction was the rigging, the way the stern was rigged. Sailors are familiar with different types of sailing ship, such as cat, slop, schooner, cutter, ketch or yawl: sleek or angular, narrow or wide, illustratively comparable to pretty butts.

Highly frustrated spouses are unquestionably the cheapest and most versatile hookers to use, especially when their spouse is either cheating or has become unwanted. The old sailor's saying that he knows one in everyone who is waiting for him is true here in relation to the neglected marital harbor. Just like: Sundays... never! When the sweetheart is at home. The movie with Melina Mercouri and the song, in German: 'Ein Schiff wird kommen', fits perfectly into this setting.

And so my life went by, until the age of about 35, professionally successful, but always gripped by lust, which I managed to live out alongside my otherwise often nerve-wracking management job. So once again I found myself in a nudist club in Cologne, the cradle of these establishments and a form of entertainment for hunters of special happiness, often neglected wives who shared the spoils with commercially oriented and often sleek predators.

About 15 of Artemis' guild-mates were sitting in their natural look, randomly scattered around the room, like 8 gentlemen, on armchairs, sofas or at the bar, when one of the guys, about 45 years old, seemed to be watching me. His gaze swept benevolently over the satisfied expression of my first partner, who had come out of the hidden realms with me, which are not quite appropriately described as a relaxation room. As a possible sign of professional enjoyment at full cash, he probably guessed this.

A combination that I'm looking for and where I can become a regular if the mermaid likes to play along with the free-swimming course and treats herself and me to something. Anyway, he was working on the prettiest of the graces, flirting intensely with her, when I noticed how he kept looking towards me while he joked and laughed with her. Obviously tied up in a purposeful discussion of performance and price.

She was a pretty bug, my usual kind of hunting prey, young, firm body, slim, just laughing brightly again, with bouncing feet and small breasts over a very tight apple bottom. She stood up and suddenly approached me, addressing me: "Hello".

"Beautiful woman, what can I do for you"?

"Will you accompany me for a while"?

"I'm just thinking about it, you're pretty and funny".

"I would like to introduce you to someone, the gentleman over there asked me for this formal way to meet you". Now I was curious and followed her, my drink in my left hand.

"Torsten," he introduced himself. I combined and discarded it; it couldn't be that he was the author I had read about. But that didn't matter at the moment, because the man had a certain charisma, a kind of charisma that I haven't often experienced. Psychologists can't explain why one person can call it their own and another can't. Often these people, at least like two gentlemen I knew, know nothing of their good fortune, which also attracts women like carrion attracts flies.

"I have a proposal for you," he began, "because I've noticed that you seem to think Larissa here is cute. I'd like to live out a passion of mine. I'm a voyeur at heart, that's just the way it is. To each animal his own, as they say, especially in Cologne at the Rhine during carnival? You could also call it a fetish. Does that bother you?

"Why should it?" I smiled; this could be exciting.

"Good, I wanted to clarify that in advance."

"I'm listening." I suspected something, but I didn't let on.

"I would be happy to accompany you and Larissa to the room, all at my expense of course, I know the rate for that, to whatever you choose from the menu and consume."

I looked at him in astonishment: "Why not, it's your decision, but it will take me at least two hours, which you can expect if we are both to have unbridled fun".

He looked briefly at Larissa, who nodded and he suggested: "All right, should I take a bottle of champagne there?

"I don't drink the booze, but Larissa will certainly enjoy the extra consumption, she might even like it. That's just the way it should be".

He smiled knowingly, booked the room and additional services as well as 2 bottles of booze while we both went to take a shower. Then we strolled towards our destination while I hummed the melody of the waltz duet from the operetta Opernball: "Come with me to the chambre séparée". She was a willing, eager and creative girl who, even during my opening move with her tongue, pretty quickly abandoned her theatrical poses in favor of genuine participation, playing along and seeming to enjoy it all.

Well-paid fun without haste or reluctance is a pretty good starting point for a lucky day, she seemed to think. When everyone wanted a drink, she smudged every glass, as she had done many times, and poured the booze into the sink while smiling knowingly at us.

By the time the two hours were up, we were pretty exhausted, that is - just me, really. We lay snuggled up together; the satisfied kitten almost started purring after my rides, which she had clearly enjoyed, after the tongue play between her thighs, which had broken her initial resistance. We had long forgotten about the voyeur, as he had been sitting outside our restricted field of vision. Whatever he was doing, we simply didn't care.

When we left the private room, he thanked us both and accompanied Larissa to the safe, where he paid her, while I went to see her afterwards and gave her a considerable bonus with the words: "As a tip and to replace the booze". I smiled at her, knowing that I had a chance of being served just as happily, willingly and enthusiastically next time. This took her completely by surprise. "He was very generous," she politely tried to deflect it.

"With money", I laughed, "I enjoyed it very much and was also very generous". She shook her head with a pearly laugh and gratefully took the 100 euros.

Somehow he had noticed. When I was completely relaxed on the sofa by the window with a view of the old Father Rhine, he joined me and asked if he could sit down.

"It's a free country," I smiled. Any more ideas, sir? I asked politely, but unabashedly curious.

"Perhaps? I'd like to book the strict room - and with you, if you feel like it".

"With me? I'm not a lady of the house".

"There is free choice of partner. He who pays, creates. Are you interested? Are you curious about it?

"I can't imagine anything under it".

"That's the beauty of it. Inexperienced, but willing to experience - as you have just done with Larissa, for example. She not only tolerated your experiences out of conviction, without any compulsion, no, she clearly enjoyed them. That is pure eroticism, true pleasure. Do you agree with me?

"In a way, yes. What do you think of that"?

"Well I'll tell you that during our tête-à-tête, in this hobby room for really real guys, as you have impressively proven yourself to be before. Who have the desire, with the necessary curiosity about themselves in this extremely stimulating environment".

I thought about it. That, exactly that, yes, that was something completely new, unexpected, different, in a word, an adventure in this world that had become so impoverished. "Okay, I'm in, I'm interested, the experience in private".

At the time, I had no idea of the connotation of the Gallicism: a little rendezvous or tryst. He wanted me to choose from his à la carte menu as he pleased, apparently for his individual interpretation of the Ancièn Régime, which was supposed to put me, a naïve man, in the predicament of déjà vu. That's why he'd been highly intriguing and subliminally challenging my courage. He asked me to wait, ordered keys and a bottle of still water, then Larissa showed us the way, unlocked the door and left us alone.

"No door to close"?

"Of course not, the girls need security. I'll show you anything that looks strange at first glance".

He led me through the austere chamber, to individual groups of furnishings, most of them made of leather and steel, explained the basic function, which I marveled at doubtfully, and asked me openly: "Would you like to play with your own courage, your character, how it feels to feel different?

"Explain to me first how you won this game, the session with Larissa".

"Oh that. I saw how you responded to the young lady's hidden needs, won her over with your moves, perfectly prepared so that you could then take her like the willing woman she had become through you at that point. As a guy who wielded gentle power that every woman would gladly submit to in bed. That was really fascinating, but not entirely unexpected. I had thought you were the same".

"Why?"

"Intuitively. Because my feeling and my experience led me to believe it".

"That was all? That's why you're paying?"

"No, your butt has stimulated me, it's really sweet it demands attention, a treat for the rod. You suspect it, I know it, but soon you'll really know it".

"How is that? Are you going to beat me up?"

"Erotic spanking, of course! Your ass is practically begging for it. You want it, you'll want it again after you've experienced it properly once, just as Larissa gave up her resistance under your tongue, so you'll ask for it without a word, just like her. Your chance is now, hop or skip, look at me"!

"I see an athletic body, good muscles, they testify that a real guy is standing here".

"Maybe you want to wrestle me, let this guy beat you physically in a fair handto-hand fight first before you agree"?

"I see what I can't achieve is to overcome you in a competition. Size, strength, muscles, everything speaks for you and my inevitable defeat. I surrender".

"Interesting solution. Let's get down to business then. He led me to a kind of leather-covered bench, like those used by weightlifters, to which a pillory frame was attached at the front, which held the outstretched arms like the neck and effectively prevented both from moving freely. At hip height, as on a massage table by the head, there was space for the hanger, slightly raised so that the buttocks were presented temptingly, like a bite-sized morsel, an amuse-gueule on a platter, here presumably less for the amusement of a sweet tooth.

He invited me to climb onto the frame with his gaze, slowly lifted the clasp, placed it over my wrists and neck and then closed it. The remaining openings were padded with soft leather. The peg in the bar, like a padlock, prevented any escape, which somehow brought me closer to a certain panic. "Last chance, I open again and you go, or you stay and experience yourself"?

"Password"?

"Too late! To each his own, you know. Besides, the house is responsible for making sure nothing bad happens to you, nothing that isn't a gold standard in these parts. But for you, one last chance. Shall I open"?

I silently denied, shaking my head. He closed the bar for good, pulled out an extra-wide, sort of weightlifting belt from under the bench, which, placed over the hips at waist level and lashed down, protected the kidneys, but at the same time, which seemed a more likely and primary purpose, only allowed the buttocks to move a little up and down and back and forth. He took a strap whip from the cupboard and explained its purpose to me.

"The martinet is still used for parental corporal punishment in France, especially in the provinces, and it is still legal for teenagers. It was invented for 15-year-old girls, whose skin was not allowed to be broken, which would have greatly reduced their marriageability. Strict, harsh education, not stigmatization, was the sole purpose and with a unique and haunting effect on body and mind, as you will experience for yourself.

As I've already mentioned, I'm a sucker for a sweet bottom, for tight asses like yours, which appealed to me immensely right from the start. Of course I sponsored Larissa so as not to waste this opportunity here. Guys so endowed, even hyperhetero-macho guys, they don't suspect, even though they know inside themselves, that they, well prepared, with their hot asses, most willingly want to obediently serve a real guy behind them, and instead of ruling themselves, want to be fully dominated by him when they voluntarily lie down here to submit to his power".

"But me..."

"You are silent now. For every word, there are an additional six lashes, as has been the custom since Victorian times, which teaches everyone to obey, some sooner, others later and far more extensively. Six of the best is the motto. The infamous film 'If' by director Lindsay Anderson, son of a British officer, himself an English college student and born in India, with Malcolm McDowell and Richard Widmark as the main actors, probably mistakenly ended the session after four strokes, but showed in detail how the resistance of the pupil finally breaks at the latest at the fourth stroke, how Larissa, after your tongue-lashing, submitted to the given situation without resistance and showed no more recalcitrance.

It is not without reason that 4 is the symbol for disaster in Chinese: the reason is the sound similarity of the number word with sǐ for death, because the last resistance dies. The number 6, in turn, means: anger and joy, pain and pleasure, love and hate, you will experience all of this soon. 9 is the symbol for the noble dragon and the 9 rites, including the male consecration, the special kind of which you will receive from me, you dragon of the Chinese zodiac sign.

The two stands for both opposites. Yang for everything that is active, generative, vitalizing, creative and expanding as well as yin for everything that is passive, hidden, contracting and inner. The ritual marriage of yin and yang takes place at every equinox, which we are fortunate enough to have today. Yin and yang complement and depend on each other.

Confucius explained the primacy of yang by that of the elder over the younger, but remember his famous question: "Look at a stick: One end of it is yin, the other yang. Which is more important? His answer was: The stick itself is important! The one that will connect us both, today and much more often in the future, at your fervent wish".

He had already started to whip my ass during this entire lecture, first lightly and then harder and harder, so that I now felt a pleasant burning sensation on my cheeks, which made him very sensitive. At least for every further blow, which my ass still seemed to greedily demand, especially against my will.

"Now I'll list your first six. Each stroke has a rule that applies to you. If you break it, there are six more waiting for you. Number one is: Your ass belongs to me without restriction".

The first blow almost made me scream, which didn't matter, the room was of course soundproofed.

After several minutes and up to number 6, the same thing happened every time: I experienced the rule, followed by a welt. My ass danced helplessly under his strokes, which he apparently carried out with full force parallel to each other, starting from the top and continuing downwards. My resistance broke, as he had predicted, after which I obeyed without resistance, submitting unconditionally. In this way, the rules were unforgettably impressed upon me:

"Number two, you obey me at my word, whenever, wherever, why and for however long I want to own you or your ass.

Number three: You will learn to play the natural flute perfectly and always return the played instrument lip-dried.

Number four: Your cock is also mine and obeys me without contradiction.

Number five: All this in response to my following code word, which means dragon in Latin: Draco.

Number six: We don't talk about our relationship to anyone, at least not without each other's consent.

For you, my name is Thor, because the anagram of the god Donar results in Andro, as the man is called in Greek. In fact, analogous to a former crude soldier's joke, today you voluntarily undergo the final examination in the modern version of the Imperial Bride School to become my perfect wife, one might think. You yourself will become Hebe, the name goddess of youth, fitting for Thor would be Idun, but you willing lifting of the ass fits much better".

My ass was burning like fire, so I didn't realize that he was standing behind me ready to do his rule and take my virginity, which he did very gently, because I was in too much pain to feel him until he was already up to the hilt inside me, even though he seemed very well built. Of course, he gave me time until I wanted to feel for myself what a penis in my ass feels like when a guy gives it to me.

I could somehow empathize with Larissa when all I wanted was to be taken hard and firmly, to feel him inside me, to serve him until he almost flooded me.

"As Confucius prophesied: the stick itself is the most important thing that connects us, my cock in you. When we're both finished tonight, which will take a while, you'll ask me to invite you back within a week, but then at my place, you want to bet?

"Only if I win something and not in money".

"Fine, we'll bet your ass. You call me, Andro, your groom, and he's mine for one night for every call. After three nights, I'll keep him for as long as I want. A fair bet, don't you think? You just don't have to call"-

"Your commitment"?

"What do you want? Two hours each with a lady of your choice? With Voyeur, or what else?

"Your ass, here. For three nights if I don't call by Saturday evening"!

"The bet is on." He stepped behind me and told me to keep quiet, whatever was on my mind. I was only the recipient of his messages. That was that.

Then I heard: "Your buttocks tempt every guy and they are in urgent need of a firm hand". With the Martinet he continued to stroke them relentlessly until my whole buttocks seemed to burn as if they were on fire, which I commented on, moaning loudly. Then, without a long pause, he continued with 6 strokes that made me almost scream, but not so hard that I seemed to be begging for more and more of his strength, the same strength that his cock had given me before. The martinet colored everything to the last corner, took over the reins of the raging globes without hesitation, accompanied by my whimpering and whimpering, which apparently no longer expressed pain alone, but incredible pleasure, the sex became joy, lust and love, three of the said 6 aspects took the lead.

My ass waited hopefully for each new blow, my rosette for the cock, my brain for the guy who was now going to take me hard. Slowly, he continued to strip me, with pauses in which I craved and demanded more, until anger, pain and hatred rose up inside me, alternating with pleasure, lust and love, in an interplay of emotions.

Then he gently stroked my rosette with his wet finger, praising the reaction: "Hot ass, ready-to-receive rosette, a horny lad waiting for the guy behind him to show him why he's stretching his sweet, glowing bottom so greedily towards him".

I wanted his cock now, badly, but his tongue took me completely by surprise, tasting me, licking me, penetrating me, as his lips caressed and kissed my cheeks and inner thighs. Teeth bit me playfully until finally, as he said, a mighty butt plug was sunk into my anus.

Then he picked up the whip again and stood in front of me: "Your hot ass caused my hard-on. You're responsible for all the consequences. Kiss it, suck it, suck it, because it's yours for the next while, you play the flute now. He pushed himself into my mouth and lifted the martinet, which was now 90° apart, stroking the buttocks and between them, including the rosette, which was almost writhing underneath.

The wide end of the plug prevented injury, but I became hornier and hornier as he thrust until his mouth and ass sucked and ravished him in time. I used my tongue, my lips, demanded the outpouring, blew and milked him as I would have wanted myself. He continued to increase his intensity, full of passion, until finally my ass almost demanded the whip, I wanted to feel him riding me instead of in my mouth.

He knew how to take it to the extreme until my butt was just thrusting greedily upwards, demanding, waiting for him, until he changed sides, pulled out the plug and filled me without a care in the world with one thrust, initially only about the same 7 cm in length. He was a little stronger, which made me groan with pleasure: "Learning new things is often associated with a little pain," he whispered in my ear, before he slowly, steadily pushed himself deeper, finally taking possession of me to the core.

I could feel his pubic hair bristle between my ass cheeks. Now I was ready for anything, except pleasure - and I wanted to savor it to the full. The hidden woman in me fully accepted his role of dancing on the lance like a go-go girl, milking or squeezing him with all my muscles with every movement, opening myself up to him, thrusting against him until we were united by the same beat.

I felt a climax rising inside me, caused by a tight cock in my ass, by the glow of the welts and the raging of my buttocks, until I thought I was going to explode when I squirted out my semen, which triggered his outpouring, which anointed me inside. He continued his thrusts without ceasing, took his wife as Andro, her husband, proved his strength, power, dominance and - anointed me a second time, which sent me over the Jordan again, even though there was no more seed left in the supply.

He, deep inside me, remained in this position, bent over me, urging me to finish milking him. Without another thought, I obeyed, his cock in my ass and I savored it. Minutes later he slid out, washed himself briefly and released the barrier. It had been almost 100 minutes by now, he showed me on his watch.

Then he took a cane, told me to bend over the bench and taught my buttocks to expect, receive and enjoy this position with relaxed muscles. A kind of certainty about the answer to the question that had been open until then sprouted in me: Would any guy be taken this way, tamed by a strict and stern acting man as a woman, that he would want to submit to the tight cock of the one who declares himself master of the ass and implacably implements his right.

"A sweet bottom, the rod loves him as he loves her, on it and in it," he breathed into my ear. "You know it, I know it and you'll have a lot more fun with it, I promise. Even if it's not necessarily just with me, I'll bet you anything."

His laughter sounded genuinely amused, he seemed to already know what I would never have thought possible. I gladly submitted to the scepter of the guy who turned me on physically and mentally, just like he did. There's no question that there were two levels to this. The understanding of the structure of such a session and the art of bringing it to a successful conclusion so that it would never end - to create this desire in the woman he was taking, to generate it on purpose.

He let me stand up and sat down on the bench, asked me to sit next to him, took my flaccid member in his left hand and told me to put my hand on his, two snakes at rest. He stood up, pulled me with him and gently pressed my chest against a leather mat on the wall, a kind of cross. "Receiving the rod standing up, both ways, works particularly well here," he whispered. His cock lined up between my ass cheeks, feeling just right there. "Time's up," I heard, "I'll only answer an open number, not an anonymous caller. I'll hear from you, one way or another. Either at my place, yours or here. Just wait and see."

I could still feel the gentle slap on my bottom burning days later, with its unmistakable message that tormented me.

Of course, he was right and I called him. His apartment became my refuge, my special care institution was based there. I secretly called him Alberich. He became the guardian of my Nibelung hoard, which lay hidden between my legs, at least temporarily, willingly opening up to the brash intruder.