Bavarian Unicorn

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I don’t even know how I’ve gotten into this position. Hari, beautiful berry-brown, lightly hirsute, trim, yet muscular body, is standing at the foot of the bed in my Garmisch hotel room–at least I think it is my room. I am watching him between my knees, my bent legs spread, my feet digging into the bottom edge of the mattress, me as naked as he is, my erection, slick from his saliva proudly rising between us, as, smiling down at me, he rolls the condom on his cock. In contrast to his slim body, he is built long and thick, and he is in full erection.

I don’t know how we’ve come to this place. There was the ice-skating show. And then there was this nice, beautiful couple, she English and he Indian. She begged off a bar crawl evening. He didn’t. And now he is leaning over me at the foot of the bed, one hand stiff armed into the mattress beside my shoulder, the other hand putting himself into position. The gold medallion on the chain around his neck is dangling before my eyes, so I take it into my mouth and suck on it. My hands reach for the bulges of his chest, pushing through the finely curled dark hair there, rubbing on engorged nipples.

I’ve never been fucked by an Indian before–impossibly thin, hard-bodied, brown as a berry, an outsized cock for a man this thin. I may not know how we got in this position, but his body is beautiful and I am in heat. I want him inside me. And he is inside me. Just the bulb of him, gently rubbing just inside me, giving me spasms of “just do it.”

“Open to me. Take me in,” he murmurs. “If you want me, open to me. Good, good.” He’s a master. He knows what’s he’s doing. No fumbling here. He is in command, me his slave.

I’m panting as I will myself to stretch to receive him. He’s already big inside me. Demanding. Stretching.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”

“Yes, yes, like that, Tyler. Take it, let me in. Give yourself to me.”

The voice is soft, sing-song, the accent still with a touch of that Indian cadence I don’t like, that makes me shiver in distaste. I’ve never liked anything Indian. And yet, I’m here… with him. So, why now, am I… “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.” I turn my face to the side, the medallion slipping out of my mouth, my mouth still open, panting hard. I had no idea that an Indian could have such a beautiful body.

He’s inside me, stretching me. Big. Thick. Long. Pulsating. My hands move to his shoulder blades, fingernails digging in. I arch my back to relieve the stretch, the pressure. His cock expands and goes deeper to take up the slack. I hug his hips with my knees. He’s possessing me–fully, totally. All of my senses go, screaming, to the very center of me that he is filling, mastering. For now, this minute, I’m his.

And, maddingly, against all my prejudices, I want to be his. I want him inside me–challenging, stretching, owning.

“Yes, good. Take it, take it.”

He begins to move inside me. In and out, in and out. He buries his face in the hollow of my throat, kissing me there. My hips involuntarily move with him. My hands glide down his tightly muscled back to his buttocks and dig in there, holding him to me, inside me. He raises his chest off me, capturing my eyes with his flashing black orbs, enslaving and controlling me with his body and his eyes. He grasps my ankles, raises and spreads my legs wide, and nestles even closer into me, going deeper inside me. In and out, in and out.

I don’t remember a man ever being this deep, this big inside me. “Yes, yes, yes. Fuck me!”

And he does, huge inside me, pounding, relentless, virile, long lasting, mesmerizing me by singing to me in soft, rhythmic, exotic tones… until he comes to climax, crying out in Hindi or Urdu or some other Indian language, tensing, shuddering, releasing, tensing, shuddering, releasing. I only now fully realize he isn’t sheathed, although he did murmur something about coupling naturally. And, at the moment, I don’t give a shit if he’s sheathed or not. He no longer is courting me; it’s all about his manhood, his release, his victory. For several seconds I am just a vessel for his seed. It’s exhilarating, strangely satisfying. Seeded–breeded–once, twice, and then again.

* * * *

“Is it all right to share the table with this couple, sir? I’m afraid we overbooked, and you have a table for four. Or were you waiting for more to arrive?”

He knew damn well I wasn’t waiting for more. He knew exactly who and how many had booked. The maître d’ of the new Casa Carioca in Garmisch, Germany, a picturesque alpine village in the embrace of the Bavarian Alps, was looking at me with hopeful eyes. No, I wasn’t expecting anyone else for this very-well-placed table in the second tier up from the ice. This was my second night coming here to moon over the athletic figures out there giving an ice show. I couldn’t decide whether to ogle the women skaters or the men, so I was doing both. I was an indiscriminate ogler–and more. For me sex was sex was sex. I would go with either woman or man, as long as they grup escort could arouse me enough to get it up. I was on vacation in Germany, taking in the Ludwig fairytale castles of Bavaria precisely because I’d become entwined with both a Christina and an Alan at home and couldn’t decide which way to lean when they demanded I choose. Everything had been fine until they’d gotten jealous of each other and each wanted me all to themselves.

I looked beyond the maître d’ and saw the couple standing there. The man was young, brown, Indian, and I gave a little shudder. I worked with Indians in New York in the translation service I worked for. They were obsequious and cloying. I felt slimy when I had to deal with them as chief of Asian services. I wanted to shrink from this one, even though he was very different from my work colleagues–handsome, well formed, exotic looking–and all gleaming white teeth in his smile at me. Beside him, the woman was beautiful in a former blonde model way, clearly fifteen or twenty years older than the young Indian man, a real fashion plate, although spending more and more hours, as the years went by, on presenting as such. She was in a beaded black dress that hung on her like she was walking the runway and that shimmered in the gleam of the spotlights roaming the room in preparation for the ice dances to start. No, I wasn’t in the mood for an Indian, no matter how handsome, or of trying to relate to a Gretta Garbo type, even though all of my attention could be directed to the ice below.

The lights were flashing. The first show was about to begin.

“Certainly, do let them join me at this table,” I said. “Seat them quickly, though, as the show is about to begin.”

The show was good, featuring Olympic ice skaters from myriad countries. The nightclub, the Casa Carioca, had been revived just in the last two years. It had its origins in the 1936 Winter Olympics hosted here in the Bavarian town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, nearly in the shadow of the Alpspitz and Zugspitz of the Bavarian Alps. The club itself, featuring ice-skating shows, didn’t get established until 1950, after World War Two. Skaters in the 1936 Olympics had remembered how picturesque the town was and set up a world-renowned small club here to feature their ice-skating prowess and provide them some income in the off seasons for ice competition. Ice shows had run for twenty years before the club had burned down. Lately, though, in a surge of nostalgia, the club had come back to life, thanks to the efforts of such figure skating stars as East German Katarina Witt, Olympic champion from the 1980s. The club had been rebuilt on the same blueprints of the original.

Introductions were scant because the show was starting, but the couple and I spoke during the intervals, during which food and drink were being served, and, though the conversation was stilted at first, it warmed up. Myra Parker wasn’t an ice maiden at all. She was quite expressive, flirty, and witty and had an infectious husky laugh. She was English, working as a producer for BBC costume-drama television series in London. He, Hari Mehta, in his late twenties, thus somewhat the same age as I was–maybe a couple of years older–was a television actor from Mumbai, India, appearing in one of the series Myra was producing. The two were on an escape vacation from filming the interior scenes for the drama in Italy–“of all places, darling.”

They obviously, from the way they related to and touched each other, were fucking. That turned me on. I not only was bisexual; my fetish was coupling with a couple.

“Oh, no, don’t give me that look, dear,” Myra had said, accompanied by a husky laugh. “We’re long married. Has it been what, three years now, Hari? He’s not stealing me away to have his way with me, although he has his way with me quite nicely.” The look she gave me when she said this suggested she wouldn’t mind me having my way with her as well. She gave the impression, though, that all of the control in sex with a man would be hers.

We all laughed, me at least with the thought that the robbing of the cradle went the other way. But she was a good sort–and, as far as I could tell, a very good sport. Now Hari, Hari was something else. Him being an Indian, I was wary, and, yes, prejudiced, and determined to hold him off at arms’ length. But he was a hunk and a half–handsome in a way that immediately justified him being a television actor, also friendly and open, dark and sultry, with movie star looks and a fine head of curly back hair. There was still much of the Indian in him–extraordinary thinness, an accent that almost, but not quite with him, bordered on cloying, and a habit of touching whoever he was speaking to with long, sensuous fingers. With the Indians from my work, that made me feel slimy. When Hari did it, though, it was arousing.

I shared that I was American, from New York, on an exploration holiday–by myself–to take in the iranlı escort fantasy castles of mad King Ludwig, one of Richard Wagner’s sponsors. These included the fairytale Neuschwanstein; the upscaled Versailles on an island, Chiemsee; and his magical residential Baroque villa, Linderhof. Myra and Hari shared that that was their itinerary here as well. I was staying at the Hotel Rheinischer Hof on Zugspitzstrasse, and they were booked just down the same road at the Hotel Edelweiss.

The show was exceptional and I was in a party mood. I didn’t want the evening to stop, and, I didn’t want it to stop with Myra and Hari either. My attitude to sharing my table with them had turned around completely. I wanted to share more than that with them. Hari, at least, was in the same mood. I don’t know which of us suggested a bar crawl after the nightclub show was over. Although all smiles, Myra said she was tired and had a slight headache.

“But you boys go ahead and go. Don’t mind me. The night is too young to kill a party mood when you’re on vacation.”

And so we did, Hari and I. We kicked up our heels and sustained the party mood. Hari had party favors too and he knew of some good bars to go to. We smoked joints at one crowded bar, where a good mix of good-looking women and men shared our good mood with us and we both, Hari and I, were admired for our good looks, our conviviality, and, as two young women sitting with us on a couch declared, our good bodies and the roving of our hands–and theirs.

We did not get bogged down there, though. We moved on, eventually arriving in a basement club in a rougher part of the town, where the clientele were all men, Hari produced some pills to go with our drinks, and men, some young, some not so young, all interested, shared our good mood with us and we both, Hari and I, were admired for our good looks, our conviviality, and, as two young men sitting with us on a couch declared, our good bodies and the roving of our hands–and theirs.

The night was moving on, and I was going hazy. I have some recollection of the man on the couch with an arm wrapped around my shoulders, kissing me and unzipping me and moving his hand into my fly, while Hari was doing the same, sitting beside me, with another young man. Then there was some sensation of Hari kissing me.

And then, we were in my hotel room, Hari and I, and I was kneeling in front of him, taking his cock in my mouth. Not minding that he was an Indian at all.

* * * *

I woke up later in the night, in the dark, a body stretched out beside me–Hari’s body–and Hari’s arm slung over my chest. The next time I woke, it was light, and I was alone in bed. Most of the morning was gone. Hari had disappeared while I was in the bathroom. I’d missed the complimentary breakfast buffet but went to the dining room and had a big breakfast anyway.

I was embarrassed that I’d lost control and had gone all out the previous night. I didn’t so much feel remorse for having let Hari fuck me, although I still was a bit disgusted with myself for having given it to an Indian. I wasn’t over that prejudice yet, although Hari had been unlike any other Indian I’d ever known. But I did feel remorse that I’d let Myra’s husband fuck me. I’d liked Myra. It was Hari’s betrayal of her, not mine, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel some guilt. I did get it on with couples, but I needed to have some disdain for them to do it comfortably. I liked both of them–if only grudgingly in Hari’s case. The only good thing about the evening was that whatever the pills had been that Hari had given me, they didn’t give me hangover. The liquor and joints slowed me down a bit, but not much, considering how wild the evening had gotten.

Whatever the embarrassment of letting myself hang out like that, at least I probably wouldn’t run into the couple again. Today I planned to go north to Oberammergau, with its Roman history and where a live passion play had been put on for centuries–every ten years since the middle of the seventeenth century as thanks to God for the village having been ignored by a plague in the region–and then to the Ludwig castles to the west of Garmisch the following day–and then on, to the east to Berchtesgaden. I’d be too busy to play with Hari again and to deceive Myra.

It already was afternoon when I got to the car rental office to pick up the car I’d reserved for the rest of my trip around Bavaria. I was filling out paperwork when Hari and Myra came in. Myra was being gushy–no questions at all about what Hari and I did until sometime before dawn after we’d parted from her at the Casa Carioca the previous evening. And Hari was being breezy, registering no hint that he had fucked me the night before. I, however, became an instant basket case and don’t know how I managed to keep Myra from realizing that something between the three of us now was completely off balance.

“You’re getting a car too?” Myra asked, as Hari keçiören escort saddled up to the woman at the desk.

“Sightseeing further afield than Garmisch,” I answered. “Up to Oberammergau today–a shorter trip because the day’s nearly spent. Then tomorrow it’s off to Linderhof and Neuschwanstein, I think.”

“What do you mean no cars?” I heard Hari say, and both Myra and I turned our attention to him.

“No more cars are available today, sir, es tut mir leid–I’m sorry,” the desk clerk said. She was polite, but definite. “All have been given out for today. It’s late in the day and it’s better to make a reservation beforehand to ensure we have the cars. I can get you one tomorrow morning, if you want to make a reservation.”

I had made a reservation. And I had gotten the last car for the day.

Myra looked helplessly at me. “I did so want to do some sightseeing today outside of Garmisch. I would love to see Oberammergau. If the car you’ve hired can accommodate us as well as you and you didn’t have your fill of our company last evening, perhaps…”

I was feeling guilty that I’d let her husband fuck me, and, yes, there was room in the car I’d hired, and there wasn’t any reason why I wouldn’t enjoy sightseeing in the company with others, so, of course I invited them to go to Oberammergau with me that day.

We had a blast seeing Oberammergau together, with Hari never giving the slightest hint about what he and I had done behind his wife’s back. That didn’t mean that he didn’t use every opportunity to touch me here and there, reminding me of having done it with both of us negative and making me shimmer at the touch–and of the memory. When we returned to Garmisch, it just seemed natural for me to suggest that we travel to Linderhof and Neuschwanstein together then next day, as well. So, I did, and they quickly accepted. We had become a threesome.

However, the next morning, it got knocked back to two of us–Myra and me.

She was in the lobby of my hotel when I can down for breakfast.

“I thought I’d provide the car today since you took us yesterday,” she said. “We’ve managed to get one rented.”

“OK,” I answered. “Where’s Hari?”

“He can’t come today. Phone calls with his agent and the ‘Agra Sunset’ production staff on his continuing role. Contract negotiations.”

These were calls he didn’t know he’d have to make today? And wasn’t Myra a producer of that BBC series? If he was in contract negotiations for “Agra Sunset,” wasn’t she, as well? I didn’t ask about that, though. “Fine. Shall I drive the car you’ve rented? Come into the dining room and have a cup of coffee while I get some breakfast.”

“Only Hari and I can drive the car. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Fine,” I said. The mention of driving and who would do it gave me pause. She was looking terrific today for a woman in her forties. Christina was an older woman too. I gravitated toward the more mature woman–when I wasn’t gravitating to dominating men.

But thinking about that made me think about Hari on top of me and inside me, and I forced thoughts of doing the same to Myra to the back of my mind.

I kept forcing it back there all day. Myra was vivacious and witty and we–I, certainly–thoroughly enjoyed sharing King Ludwig’s small residential palace, Linderhof and his mountaintop Neuschwanstein castle used so freely as inspiration for the Disney castles. Linderhof was both livable and luxurious, bringing out envy in the style Ludwig, who appeared more self-indulgent than the reported mad, lived in. Neuschwanstein, which we had to approach from the bottom of the mountain, on foot, showing that Myra possibly was more fit than I was, was the model of fantasy, having been built and designed to celebrate the bombastic composer Richard Wagner and his fantasy operas, and that never was fully finished or occupied because Ludwig was mysteriously drowned in the lake at its base before he managed to completely deplete the treasury of his princedom in constructing the castle.

Thoughts of sex with Myra couldn’t be kept to the back of my mind, though, and that they couldn’t was more her fault than mine.

Returning from Neuschwanstein, Myra turned off the road on a dirt track within sight of a small, picturesque lake, drove into a grove of trees, all the time saying nothing to my questions of what she was doing. When she stopped the car, she swiveled in the driver’s seat, lifted her skirts to show that she wore nothing underneath, grabbed my hand, and ran it up her thigh into the core of her. I had been cognizant of her flimsy skirt riding up on her well-toned legs all the time she’d been driving–and later I realized she had made every advantage of me being aroused by that.

I fucked her in the backseat of the rental car. The space was cramped, but she gave me all the help I needed to get her under me, reclining on the seat, which her back against the door and her voluminous tote bag under the small of her back, her skirt bunched up around her waist, her knees hooked on my hips, and her hands cupping my buttocks to her as, big and possessing inside her, I thrust and thrust and thrust. She clearly had often done this before. Her breasts were small, but the aureoles were large and dusky, and she made sure to take a position where I could easily free and suck on them.

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