The Photographs

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June, 1915, Tangier, Morocco

I feel the need and desire of Lucas at my back. We are stretched out, naked except for the sandals lacing up to our knees, on the Roman couch, backed by the Mediterranean as viewed through stone arches on the loggia of this old villa by the sea outside Tangier. Clothing items are draped down the side of couch from underneath our naked bodies–armor and a slat-plated skirt for Lucas and just a short slave’s tunic for me, giving, I was told, a hint for the camera of a Roman soldier a slave he is initiating. He is more than twice my age, taller, and much more muscular than I, dwarfing my not-yet-fully developed eighteen-year-old body as he stretches behind me, an arm draped over me, his hand palming my privates.

The Spaniard, Andres, just in drooping shorts in the Moroccan summer heat, and his Moroccan assistant move around us with their Kodak Graflex photographers’ cameras, clicking photos from this angle and that. I can feel Lucas’s need and desire pressing at my back; he is a gigantically endowed man, purposely so, Andres has told me, to provide an arousing visual contrast between the huge man and the small servant. When Lucas has gotten his shaft inside me, photos will focus on the size of it inside my small hole. Today is much like yesterday and the day before in this photo shoot. Today is just not the day I lost my virginity to men.

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

“Enough for the portfolio. Continue as you will for the patron shots,” says Andres, old at fifty, short and a bit rotund and wrinkled, but electrifyingly vital and berry brown tanned by the north African sun and his habit of living in the nude, as he directs his assistant on where to station himself to shoot photos while avoiding being in Andres’s photo shoot. The assistant faces the couch directly to get the head-on shot of the cock having its way with my hole, while Andres captures the view at an angle.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hassan, look at me. Show the camera your suffering in your eyes,” Andres says to me. I do so, and Lucas, establishing the rhythm of the fuck, laughs.

Andres, who has been moving around us with the camera, taking it all in, signals his assistant to take over the photographing. He strips off his shorts to show that he, at fifty, can still manage a hard, upcurved erection. As he approaches the couch, Lucas turns me, moving to a sitting position at the side of the couch, with me in his lap, facing out, his right hand still palming my belly and his left cupping my chin, holding the back of my head into the hollow of his magnificent chest.

Approaching, Andres reaches down, grasps my ankles, and spreads and raises my legs. He nudges in between my spread thighs and puts himself into position. I cry out again and writhe, as his cock invades me, forcing its way in above istanbul travesti Lucas’s buried shaft. Lucas holds steady while Andres, providing the thrust, joins in fucking me and the assistant float around us, capturing my being shared by the two men closely with clicks of the camera.

The end of day three of the Tangier “Generational Male Nudes” photoshoot.

* * * *

July, 1929, Barcelona, Spain

Coming back from the cemetery, I went to the publishing house rather than to the flat Andres and I had shared. I couldn’t face the flat without him yet. It wasn’t much better at the complex publishing house he ran in Barcelona, with me at his right hand. Although the gay male pornography department of our publishing firm had to be run under the surface of our regular publishing activities, the Spanish authorities knew what we were doing and tolerated them. Andres had won awards both for his aboveboard photography and for his male nudes. Beyond that there were more explicit pornographic services for well-heeled patrons.

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

I would have to find another photographer for the pornographic services, though–one with Andres’s talent and reputation in certain circles. Andres had been the center of the publishing house in every way, electrifyingly vital into his late sixties–right up to his sudden demise. Even at sixty-seven, short, rotund, and wrinkled, he had been able to master me in bed. He also had tolerated my having acquired his fetish. Sometimes we shared eighteen-year-olds, provided by Count Rosario, who had the power to provide fetish services in Barcelona, which is why the publishing house was located here.

I would miss him, but life goes on.

I noticed that one of his earlier published glossy photo art books, Generational Male Nudes, comparing and contrasting the bodies of a thirty-two-year-old male and an eighteen-year-old, rested on his desktop. I hadn’t seen that for years and wondered if he’d just taken it off the shelf to look at again recently or if the book–a early success of ours–had always lived there on the desktop.

I opened the book and looked through the photos, starting with one of a hunky Roman soldier sitting on a couch backed by the Mediterranean as viewed through stone arches and being served wine by a beautiful young chocolate-brown slave in a tunic. As the photos progressed, the soldier and young servant became naked, and the book earned its title of being a contrasting study in nudity of a mature man and a younger one. The poses became sensual, but they never, in this photobook, crossed the line into overt sex. They had crossed the pornography line for some, of course, but that had only added to the book’s commercial success and to the establishment of this publishing house.

What was the name of the man playing the Roman soldier, I wondered. Lucas wasn’t it? Not Roman at all, German. No, not German–Austrian. But he looked the part. A gorgeous hunk of man flesh. My eyes went to the young servant and followed him through the photos, touching his image here and there with my fingers. He had been eighteen. Off the streets of Tangier, his mother English but his father a Moroccan tribal chief who had not stayed around to raise and guide his son, who had done what he had to do to survive on the streets of Tangier. That had included selling his body to a Spanish photographer for a pornographic photo shoot. So many years ago. So much had happened in his life since then.

I wondered what had happened to Lucas. I knew what had happened to the photographer, Andres, and the young man, Hassan.

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

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

“Life goes on,” I answered.

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

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

Diego and the young man were already seated in the restaurant of the Barcelona hotel when I arrived that evening. Xavier was eighteen, well-mannered, from a good, but poor, local family, Diego assured me. The young man wanted an education and a vocation that suited his interest in men. He knew he could, by choice, start in the business at eighteen and wished to do so. He’d had some training but he hadn’t been with a man yet. He knew of Count Rosario and the man’s program of training young men as high-end escorts throughout Europe. The count ran a club in Barcelona for well-heeled men all over Europe who had a fetish for young men and he had a private college hosted in the country where he gave a good, free education, room, and board to young men who serviced his club members in exchange for sponsorship and training.

I belonged to the club, as had Andres, and Diego had found in Xavier an unused hunk of eighteen who wanted to get into the count’s school and services. Diego wanted to move up at the publishing house, and had made this arrangement for me even before Andres died to curry favor with me.

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

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

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

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

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

Diego got it on camera. This would be mailed and couriered to a select list of subscription patrons. After I had breeded him, I went over to Diego at the chair across the room, while giving the whimpering Xaxier an opportunity to recover, and Diego and I selected the photos we wanted to use in a glossy photobook and those to send to the subscription service.

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

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

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

“Did I–?”

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

“Am I good enough that–?”

“I’ll suggest the count give you a full scholarship and invite you to his next masked party up at his villa. If he takes you, I will follow your progress, and probably will wish to engage you afterward myself. Are you hungry or–?”

“Please. Again,” he murmured

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

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

* * * *

September, 1931, Salzburg, Austria

I hadn’t realized that Andres’s job as publisher had been so demanding. I kept a copy of the glossy Generational Male Nudes photobook on the top of the desk where Andres had put it and I took time occasionally to look at the photos again, wondering what had become of Lucas Steinmann, but it was over a year before I found the time to try to track him down. When I started to check, I was surprised to learn how easy it was to find him. Lucas was still using that name. I don’t know if that was the name he was using when the photobook was shot fourteen years earlier when he was thirty-two and I was eighteen, but he’d kept that name. He also hadn’t strayed far from what he was doing then. He was, in some ways, one of the publishing house’s competitors. He owned a gay nightclub in Salzburg, Austria, but he also had a studio there, filming male nudes for a private subscription service. From what I could tell, he specialized in photos of half-clothed German soldiers putting it to young, naked men.

I wondered whether he still posed for his photoshoots and whether he was as hunky now, at forty-six, as he had been in 1915 in Tangier.

He wasn’t.

While on business to Vienna, I made a side trip to Salzburg and located his club and visited it out of curiosity. It took me a while to discover where it was, and those who ultimately knew gave me a pointed look before telling me. When I entered the dimly lit showroom bar in an English basement on a small side street off Glockengasse, in the shadow of the Kapuzinerberg in the Söllheim area of the city, the lights were dim and a show was going on on a platform pole. The dancer looked young–over eighteen, but not much more. Most of the men watching were middle aged. The performer was willowy, showing great flexibility, was beautiful in an androgynous way, with platinum blond hair and feminine movements, and he made my cock lurch, just as I was sure he was doing for the men watching him. He had been just the sort of young man Andres and I had been prone to bringing home and sharing.

I went to the bar and asked for Lucas Steinmann. I was directed to a cubicle at the back of the room that was some sort of office and that had a plate glass window overlooking the showroom, no doubt so that Lucas could keep an eye on his grubby little empire. The club was exceedingly seedy. He was clearly visible sitting at a desk, giving me a close scrutiny as I moved toward him. I was disappointed. He had not aged well or kept what had once been a superb fitness.

“Hello, I’m–” I started to say, as I entered the glass-walled room. I wasn’t able to go further, though.

“I know who you are. Hassan, Andres’s young man,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I hoped that one day we would meet again. You were such a sweet lay. I heard that Andres had died.”

That threw me for a loop. He’d recognized me after fourteen years. Before I could respond, he said, “A beautiful young man has become a beautiful mature man. Such rich chocolate-brown skin. Very photogenic. The mixture of Morocco and Europe looks very good in you.”

“You remembered me after all this time?” I asked, surprised; not necessarily flattered as he’d been a cruel man and I remember him most for having plundered my virginity to men from me. He had fucked me for three days for the camera; he hadn’t given me any quarter as a mixed-breed eighteen-year-old in North Africa without many options at the time. Later, I was grateful to him, as the initiation and education had been swift and decisive. And I don’t remember taking a bigger cock since that time, although my own rivaled his. When I took an eighteen-year-old now, which had become my fetish, I could remember how it was like for them.

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