Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Changing Tracks by Rory Nisce c.  2013 rnisce2013@gmail.com

   This is a true story--only the names have been changed to protect
privacy.  It happened to me while living as an exchange student in Europe.
Please send feedback to my email above.

   +++++++++++++++

   The train wended its way south along the banks of the Rhine.  When it
had pulled out of the station in Cologne and the black cathedral receded in
the distance, I knew I was in for an adventure.  It had been 9 months since
I arrived in Germany to spend the last year of high school as an exchange
student.  And I had worked for years doing every job I could to save up
enough money to get out of my little Western town in the Rockies.  It was
the first time I had lived away from home, and the future seemed bright. 
Even though I had studied French for years, I had chosen to live in Germany
because I thought it would serve me better in my professional life.  The
grammar was quite hard, and the culture shock had been brutal.  And my
first host family, the one the program assigned me to, had been simply
awful.  I had had to find my own replacement lest the program relocated me
in mid-year to Ost Frisia, a rural backwater in the far northwest.  There
had been constant adversity to overcome, so by the time my cousin, spending
the year as an exchange student in Switzerland, proposed a trip to Rome I
jumped at the idea.  Most German high school students take a major trip in
the spring, often with their class and teacher, to some place in Europe;
they look forward to it for months and raise funds to pay their way in the
same manner that high school students in America might raise money for
their basketball team or the drama club.  I still had money I had saved up
from my years of work, so I just went.  I packed a bag, told my host family
I would be back in a week, and set out.

   I had really applied myself to learning the language and how things
worked, so I got a charge out of making my own way in the foreign land.  I
had even mastered the art of playing the part of dumb foreigner to
occasionally get away with not having the right ticket or something else
minor to save some money.  I was not as brave as my Swiss-Canadian friend
on the program who had ditched school almost entirely to hitch-hike all
over Europe, but I felt competent at getting around.  So when the conductor
came to our compartment to ask for our tickets, I assumed my most perplexed
expression while he tried to explain to me that I had bought a tram ticket
south instead of the proper ticket for the regional train I was on, a
difference of 30 marks.  Shrugging and saying "Sorry, I don't understand"
in English several times wore him down into an exasperated sigh and a
muttered "Stupid foreigners!" remark before he moved on.  The man sharing
my compartment, who spoke good English, smiled as the conductor left and
explained to me what I had done wrong.  I gave him my best aw shucks,
thanks mister bit before settling into a copy of the Economist and
listening to German punk on my headphones.

   My fellow traveller soon got lost in his novel, and I set back to enjoy
the scenery--in later years travel programs have asserted it's one of the
most scenic rail journeys in the world.  All along the banks of the Rhine
for hundreds of miles the vinyards that produce the famous German white
wines cling to the hills, and atop nearly every promontory you can see the
crumbling castles of the barons and minor princelings that ruled the
patchwork quilt of a hundred fiefdoms before they were unified into Germany
in the first Reich under Frederick the Great.  Then, about halfway to
Frankfurt there's a kink in the river where treacherous rocks called the
Lorelei occupy the middle and threaten shipping.  Not long after that,
there's the Mauseturm, a diminutive castle sitting on a small island in the
middle of the stream where many famous nobles and people were imprisoned. I
drank it all in.

   And I was so absorbed by the vistas that it wasn't until we were nearly
at Frankfurt that my ears perked up to the announcements over the intercom
that said they were sorry for the delay in our arrival and that agents at
the information booths would help us arrange other connecting trains to
help us get to our final destinations.  I looked at my watch, and we were
40 minutes late.  I had missed the connection I had planned to make.  I
smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand.  My compartment mate inquired
if I was OK, and I said something about how I thought Germain trains were
supposed to never be late.  He clucked his tongue, "Ja ja it's the CDU
government fighting with the SPD again--ach, politiks!" He smiled
apologetically.  I thanked him for his help and said I'd figure things out.

   When we arrived at the main station in Frankfurt, the hauptbahnhoff,
there was a mad scramble as other delayed passengers on the train ran to
get their connections.  Others, like me, headed for the Information
Windows. It was a massive bunch.  But the way that they queued up even when
terribly impatient and irritated made me smile--you could probably drop a
German in the middle of darkest Africa and they'd still try to do things
ordentlich--orderly.  Of course, that also meant that by the time I got to
the window, the last connecting train to Basel that evening had gone.  I
was stranded in Frankfurt, with no money budgeted for a hotel.  I would
have to wander the streets or sit on a bench in the train station all
night. I didn't know what I relished least, the lack of sleep or the
intense boredom.  I had already read the Economist cover to cover, and I
had nothing else to occupy me.  So I began wandering through the station,
looking for a reasonable place to sit, out of the way where hopefully
station security wouldn't hassle me too much, semi-comfortable, and yet
affording me a view so I could entertain myself with people watching.

   Finally, I found a promising looking bench in the vicinity of a kneipe
(pub) that sported those stand-up tables outside its doors, the kind you
see at sports bars in the United States.  As I was settling on the end of
the bench, a voice in German at my elbow said, "Hello, are you lost?  Can I
help you?"

   I looked up and saw a scrawny, tall fellow with dingy, straight blonde
hair that fell to his shoulders, sallow skin, and dark circles under his
eyes.  He held a half-smoked cigarette in his left hand, and I thought I
detected a slight tremble in his fingers.  He was a sketchy looking dude.

   "I'm not lost, but I missed my connection and am stuck here for the
night.  Thanks for asking, though."

   The guy glanced furtively over his shoulder toward one of the tables
outside the pub.  Then he screwed himself up and said, "Well, since you're
stuck here for the night, how about a job helping me?"

   "Uh, what kind of job?" He had not let on that he had detected that I
was a foreigner.  Perhaps the Cologne accent I had worked so hard to
acquire masked my English accent.  I felt a bit proud at that thought.  I
wondered if I could keep it up and keep him in the dark.

   "You see, I run a tour company and these fellows over there," he
gestured with his chin toward a table with 5 men sitting around it, "hired
me to show them Frankfurt.  Except they are very demanding, always wanting
me to fetch them cigarettes and beer and always with a thousand questions
about this thing or that thing and I'm frankly exhausted.  I could use an
assistant for the night.  I would pay you well for your time, and they
would probably pay for your dinner and a room.  Then you can come back here
tomorrow and continue your journey."

   He practically blurted all this out, speaking rapidly and taking quick
puffs on his cigarette.  His hands did shake.  He could indeed be on the
verge of collapse from satisfying demanding clients.  Or he could be a
heroin addict jonesing for a fix.  I cast a look over to his clients.  They
were leaning forward on their elbows, watching us intently.  One of the men
had a moustache and ran his tongue over the bristles after taking a sip of
his foamy beer.  Another took a languid drag on his cigarette and blew the
smoke out in chuffs.  My spidey sense tingled.  There was something weird
about the situation.

   I considered my options.  I could sit on the bench overnight, get no
sleep, have nothing to eat, and be bored out of my mind.  Or, I could go
along with this scheme, make some more money for my journey, score dinner
and a room, and possibly some alcohol, and I could see how long I could go
before they realized I was an American.  It would be a fun challenge with
some definite payoffs.  And if things got too weird or sketchy I could
always bail and return to the station.

   "How much would it pay?" I asked, trying to be cagey.

   "I could pay you 300 marks for the night's work, and they would probably
give you tips as well."

   300 marks!  Tips!  That was a fortune.  I could really see Rome in
comfort with that kind of money.  Still, I did not like the look of this
sketchy dude.  And the intensity of his clients' stares was off-putting.

   "What kind of things do you need me to do?" I asked suspiciously.

   "Oh, nothing unusual.  Help me fetch them things, deal with their bags,
make conversation, laugh at their jokes, that kind of thing.  They want to
have a good time without hassles, that's all."

   I pondered it a moment further, then, impetuously, "OK, it's a deal."

   "Ausgezeichnet!" he exclaimed, and waved me along to meet his clients at
their table.  They watched our every step as we approached.  I shifted my
backpack on my shoulders and tucked my fists into the straps.  The tour
guide introduced me, "Guys, this is..." he looked at me.

   "Stefan," I lied.

   "Stefan," he repeated, smiling, "he has agreed to help us with our
travels this evening."

   The men nodded and the nearest to me, a man with blue eyes, black hair,
and a short, well-trimmed beard, asked me, "Where are you from, Stefan? 
What do you do usually?"

   "From Cologne, where I study economics at the university."

   "Ah, Cologne, home of the real Eau-de-Cologne."

   "Exactly."

   He nodded his head, glanced at his companions, and said, "We all
remember our time in uni, don't we boys?  A bit of cash was always welcome.
Well, don't worry Stefan, we're good guys and just like to have a good time
without hassle.  Help Herr Burg here," he nodded at the tour guide, "and
we'll give you a good tip tonight."

   "And dinner and a room," I interjected, wanting to make sure the deal
didn't go south on me.

   The man looked at Burg, smirked, and said, "Of course naturlich.  Dinner
and a room too."

   I nodded, satisfied.  But I noted with curiousity how the man's friends
looked at each other and grinned as though they were in on some inside
joke. Well, I blithely thought, who cares?  I'm gonna make money, get food
and a room, and get to tag along on somebody else's tour, which will sort
of be like a tour for me too.  And hey, after all the crap jobs I worked to
save the money for this exchange program, what's the big deal about hefting
somebody else's bags and fetching cigarettes and drinks?  And if they have
some inside joke going on, so what?  Germans are all a little weird anyway,
and as far as they know I'm German too.  It'll be kind of like being a spy
in a Le Carre novel, except nobody will be shooting at me.

   "Well, guys, where should we go first?  What's on the agenda?" Burg
ventured, "should we go for a night-time cruise on the Rhine and watch the
lights on the water, or perhaps go to the night market, or perhaps
something racier like the red light district?"

   The man with the beard, whose name I came to learn was Johann, pursed
his lips in thought.  A sandy blonde three to his left shrugged and said,
"I could go for the cruise."

   At his right, the guy with the moustache and the foamy beer said, nah,
I'd rather the red light district.

   Between him and Johann, a guy with curly hair and glasses shrugged and
said he'd be fine with whatever.

   But the guy on the far left, whose close-cropped hair looked like he had
just mustered out of the army said, "Nah, that's all scheisse.  I'm tired
of running around from place to place.  Besides, the weather tonight is
crap." He pointed his cigarette to the archway leading outside the station
behind us, and big rain drops could be seen splattering the pavement and
setting up a fine mist.  "I left my umbrella back at the room, and I have
no bock to get soaked.  Let's buy some alcohol and cigarettes and play
cards back in the room.  We can order room service for dinner."

   That sounded like a fine plan to me, except I momentarily feared it
would cost me money if there was less to do.  "I can buy the cigarettes and
alcohol for you right over there," I pointed to a convenience store inside
the station.

   "Fine, gut, ja" Johann said, and peeled a hundred mark note off a money
clip in his pocket.  "Requests, boys?  What'll it be?"

   "Korn."

   "Kirchwasser."

   "Whiskey."

   "Beer--Wahrsteiner.  Und, Jaegermeister."

   "Carton of Gaulois."

   "Dunhill Red."

   "Pipe tobacco--Irish creme."

   I tried to keep all that in my head as I went to the store and procured
the supplies.  At my return the party had already settled the bill and
waited for me.  We made our way to the taxi stand, where Burg told me to
speak to the attendant and request a minivan.  It was pouring and even the
10 yard dash from the shelter of the station entrance to the taxi stand
drenched me to the bone.  The man scribbled on a slip of paper with a
grease pencil and waved at a minvan waiting in a turnout 30 yards away. 
The vehicle flashed its lights in acknowledgement and started its engine. I
ran back to the group and said we were set to go.

   When the van pulled up, we all ran to the side door and hurried to get
in.  Burg sat in the passenger seat next to the driver.  I dutifully waited
for the men to get in first--I was already soaked, but they still had dry
patches.  With curses, jokes, and a lot of levity they crammed into all the
seats.  I started to climb in but was caught up short.  There was no seat
for me.  "Come, come!" they waved to me, "Sit on somebody's lap.  We won't
bite, I promise!" They all laughed so I figured it was OK and climbed in.
It was a split second decision where to sit, but Johann seemed the
friendliest and safest so I sat on his lap.  It felt weird, but it was a
raucous crowd with typical guy grab-ass, so I went with it.

   The taxi driver asked Burg for the directions to the hotel, which wasn't
actually all that far away in the business district downtown, and we pulled
out into traffic.  In the rain, the merge wasn't smooth, and we were
jostled and sloshed around the back of the van.  Johann's knee slid between
my legs so I rode him like a little kid playing cowboy.  His neighbor, the
curly-haired man with glasses whose name was Sebastian, reached his hand
over to steady me and keep me from piling into his lap.  His hand missed my
leg and landed in my crotch.  "Somebody's a big boy," he joked, looking
over his shoulder at the three in the back row.  I blushed and he gave my
package a brief squeeze and said, "Don't worry, we're all men here.  No
problem!" The group laughed and my alarm faded.

   I occupied myself with keeping the bottles of alcohol and cartons of
cigarettes safe during the tumultuous ride to the hotel.  There were a lot,
and they clanked and I was concerned they would break and I would make them
angry and jeopardize the hinted-at tips.  But I made it, and we soon pulled
under the shelter of the hotel's carport.  The doorman ushered us inside.
It was a basic, but clean business hotel the likes of which you find in
every business district in the world.  The clerks spoke English, and guests
from all corners of the globe in their various costumes, smoking their
various forms of tobacco, milled about in the lounge area or drank at a bar
just visible past the concierge desk in the corner.

   The men guided me to the elevators, where we mounted to the 14th floor
and went to their room.  They had rented a junior suite, two adjacent rooms
with four beds and a decent sitting area with a TV, cable box, and coffee
table.  Everyone started pulling off their wet clothes, stripping to their
shorts, and putting on plush bathrobes provided by the hotel.  Johann
noticed how bedraggled I was and suggested, "Why don't you take a shower
and wash the grime off?  There are more bathrobes in the bathroom.  Go
ahead, we can take care of ourselves for a moment."

   Well, that made sense to me.  I did feel grimy after the day's travel
and the rain, and it would be nice to get out of my soaked clothes and into
a soft, dry bathrobe.  Everyone else was doing it, too, so I wouldn't feel
strange.  I nodded, set down the bags of alcohol and cigarettes, and went
into the bathroom to shower.  The hot water felt very nice indeed.  I
lathered up my hair, and stood still to let the water and steam loosen me
up.  I hadn't realized how tired travel made me.  Then just as I was
soaping up my face, I heard the shower door slide open behind me and felt
the tub thump slightly as somebody else got in.

   "I realized I could use a shower too, and the hot water in these places
is always iffy.  I wanted to get a proper shower before these other turkeys
use it all up ahead of me."

   "Uh, OK," I said, a little weirded out by the invasion of my personal
space.

   "I will even get your back for you," he said, and lathered up the spot
between my shoulder blades.  He did it in a straightforward, non-sexual
way, so I relaxed.  It did feel good.  It had been so long since anyone
else had touched me that I didn't know how to feel about it, but he seemed
to be on the up-and-up so I gave it the benefit of the doubt.

   He dutifully washed my back, and then playfully slipped his hand down my
butt crack and around to cup my balls from behind.  "Whoops, I slipped!" he
joked.  I jumped and yelped.  Outside, voices called, "Johann, you better
not be bothering poor Stefan!"

   "Yeah, not without us haha"

   "Hey, I need a shower too," another voice taunted.

   I hurriedly rinsed off and got out of the shower.  There were no
bathrobes on the hooks, only a smallish towel.  I wasn't sure I could
fasten it around my waist.  I would have to hold it with one hand while I
rifled through my backpack for a change of clothes.  I called to Johann,
still in the shower, "Hey, where are the other bathrobes?"

   "I don't know," he called over the water, "the maids must have taken
them.  Just use a towel, we won't mind!"

   Boy I felt weird, walking into a room full of strange men wearing
nothing but a small towel, trying to get dressed one-handed.  Except,
outside in the room my clothes and backpack were nowhere to be seen.

   "Where are my clothes?" I demanded.

   "Oh, they were all wet so we sent them down to the laundry service to be
washed, dried, and pressed.  They'll be back in a while, don't worry." said
Sebastian.

   The sandy-haired blonde, whose name was Jorg, held out a shot glass of
clear liquid to me and said, "Here, a shot of Kirchwasser will warm you up.
Much better than a bathrobe or clothes."

   I looked around at the other guys.  The crew-cut, named Marco, and the
moustache, Fabian, reclined on the easy chairs and watched a music video on
the TV while downing shots and smoking.  Sebastian motioned for me to sit
on the sofa.  I remarked that Burg was absent.

   "He went to see about room service," Sven said, adjusting his glasses.
He clinked his glass with mine and said, "Prost!" I downed the fiery
schnapps.  Immediately heat spread through my empty belly and seeped into
my limbs.  Jorg poured me another, clinked my glass, and said, "Again!  To
German weather, eh?" Marco and Fabian launched into a ribald take-off of
"Deutschland ueber Alles" that substituted lyrics about girls with big tits
and loose lips.

   The second shot had me feeling a bit like I was floating.  I started to
forget why I was there, and began to keep time to the song with my fingers,
conducting the orchestra as it were.  Jorg and Sebastian clapped me on the
shoulder and said, "Jawohl!" I had also forgotten to keep holding the
little towel closed and it fell apart.

   "Oho!  The Bishop of Bingen is peeping out of the Mauseturm!" Sebastian
reached to adjust my towel, which had exposed the head of my penis.  His
fingertips grazed the tip and lingered for the briefest of seconds.  Then
he pulled it closed and patted my leg.

   "Hey, boys," he said, "How about we break out those cards and get a
round going?"

   Marco, Fabian, and Jorg raised their glasses in approval.  Behind us a
"Ja" came from Johann as he exited the bathroom and tied the sash of his
robe.  In a twinkling, the cards were opened, ashtrays set strategically at
the corners, korn, whiskey, kirchwasser, and Jaegermeister with shot
glasses between.  They called poker and set a 3-penny ante.  I obviously
had no money so Jorg staked me.  I had only played poker a couple times as
a kid and had no idea which hand beat what, how to bid, how to bluff, etc.
I was completely out of my depth.  In no time, I had lost the 50 pennies
Jorg had staked me and had to drop out.  But the guys pooh-poohed that and
offered to front me more money.  I knew that was a lost cause so tried to
beg off again.  But they were having none of it.  After each hand, and
during, a steady stream of shots had been poured.  I had probably already
had more liquor in one sitting than in my entire life.  The room was
drifting on me, and I didn't feel entirely in control anymore.

   Marco got a devilish look and said, "OK, boys, those were the junior
leagues.  Now we move on to Jaeger, and strip poker." I thought that was
terribly funny because none of us were wearing much in the way of clothes.
It would be the shortest game of strip poker in history.  Fabian poured me
a shot of Jaeger and said "Prost!" I drank it, having lost all sense.  It
had an opiate quality that I couldn't put my finger on, and my mind began
to detach from my body.  Hands were dealt.  Cards were played.  Amid my
drunkenness I noticed Johann's robe had opened below the waist, and as he
sat across from me I had a full view of his cock, laying heavy and thick on
the upholstery.  His balls, too, were largish, and lay nestled in a soft
nest of short, black pubic hair.  I couldn't stop staring at it, and
Sebastian had to nudge my elbow when my turn came around.  I played,
probably poorly, and kept staring at Johann's cock, fascinated.

   An exclamation, and Marco threw his cards on the table in disgust. 
"Off! Off!  Off!" his friends chanted, and he flung his arms back to let
the robe slide to the floor.  He wore only a jockstrap, and his long thin
dick peaked out of the edge.  "Whoa you have an escapee!" they kidded him.
Smiling, he tucked it back in and sat to take a drag of his cigarette.

   A few more hands were played.  More shots were poured.  I don't know
how, but I didn't lose right away.  One by one the other guys lost and got
down to their underwear, except for Johann, who was commando under his
robe. Then, I lost, and was compelled to stand and drop my towel while they
all cheered.  I did so, and wobbled uncertainly.  I had to reach out to
something to steady me and caught Sebastian's shoulder.  He said to the
others that I looked like I needed to lie down, and then helped me to the
nearest bed where I lay on the top cover on my stomach and tried to get the
room to stop spinning.  Behind me, the laughter took on another tenor and I
could hear the cards slapping down on the table in what seemed to me an
altogether more serious manner.

   After some time, Johann called out in broken, heavily accented English
that aped a thousand Hollywood lines, "Read it and cry, boys!" The others
groaned and Marco said, "Naja we play now for seconds." Agreement followed
his words.

   I heard, or rather felt, footsteps approach the bed and someone kneeling
on one knee on the bed next to me.  Johann's voice, low and not unfriendly,
asked if I was OK.  I nodded, because speaking made me feel like I might
hurl.  Then he sat on the bed next to me and started to massage my
shoulders and back.  I was so wasted, I didn't object, and his hands did
feel good, as good as they had in the shower.  He moved all the way down my
back to my legs, and then, incredibly, to my ass.  Again, I didn't object
since all my concentration was on not throwing up.  His fingers kneaded my
ass cheeks and then pulled them gently apart, exposing my asshole to the
light.  Slowly he worked them inward until they were massaging my sphincter
and probing ever so gently at the opening.  The old tingle returned and I
moaned involuntarily.  Taking it as a signal, Johann, worked his fingers
deeper into me, the first knuckle, then the second, then to the hilt.  He
curved them inside me and pressed against my prostate in tiny circles.  My
traitor hips began to move in synchronicity with his motions.

   The fingers withdrew from my ass, and after a few minutes I felt a cool,
slippery sensation on my asshole I had not felt since spending the summer
with my sister at the university.  A corner of my brain knew what was
coming, and the memory of the ecstasy began to course through me.  Behind
us, Jorg won the hand and the others groaned in frustration.  I heard his
footsteps, too, approach the bed, and he said to Johann, "Are you still
here?"

   "Be patient, Jorg," Johann answered calmly.

   "I am many things, Johann, but patient is not one of them.  Get about it
or I will."

   Johann straddled me on the bed, and I felt a pressure against my asshole
as he positioned himself.  His head was massive.  He strained to get it
past the entrance.  Then, pop!  It went in, and his thick, long pole slid
into my ass with a fantastic friction.  His pubes crushed against my crack,
and his massive balls rested against mine, they hung so low.  I grunted and
groaned, shifting under him.  He nuzzled the back of my neck and the hairs
of his beard titillated me.  His hot breath blew threw the fine hairs on my
neck and up my scalp and I got goosebumps.  Shifting his hips, he rolled
them around and ground his cock into my ass.  It was like riding on the top
of a gear shift, with the huge bulb of its head pressing into my prostate.
I moaned again.

   Jorg puffed with frustration.  "Dammit, man, you're going to be all day
like this.  Move down."

   Accommodating, Johann pulled back down the bed and pulled me with him.
Jorg positioned himself at the head of the bed in front of me, threading my
arms over his spread legs so my face lay right next to his dick, a short,
thick specimen with a flaring head and foreskin that had retracted with
excitement.  I had never seen an uncircumsized dick before, and certainly
not tapping against my cheek.  Jorg combed his fingers through my hair and
positioned my mouth at the top of his dick.  "Suck it," he said, and
pressed down on the back of my head.

   Already queasy from the alcohol and commotion, I was fighting to not
vomit.  Sucking on a cock was not in the plan.  Jorg was unrelenting.  He
pressed his cock against my mouth.  Its almost conical tip rubbed between
my lips.  His slit was slick.  Tiny ropes of precum formed and separated
with the friction.  With one hand Jorg held the back of my head, with the
other he tried to part my lips with his fingertips and compel me to admit
his dick.  I kept my teeth clamped.  Jorg began swirling me around in small
circles, then up and down, pawing desperately at my jaw trying to get me to
open.  The tenderness of his tip on my slippery teeth was interesting, and
his salty flavor insinuated itself into my mouth.  Behind me, Johann was
picking up speed.  Perhaps he saw the trouble Jorg was having, saw his
frustration, and figured it wouldn't be long before his companion
completely lost patience and forced Johann off and took his place to get
relief.

   The slamming of my buttocks, the friction in my ass, the large knob
dancing on my prostate.  Had I been in a better state it would have had me
delirious with pleasure and I was sure I would have been coming over and
over.  My days with Costa a couple summers before were not so remote that I
didn't remember the visceral, all-consuming orgasms that came from
man-fucking.  As it was, I was hanging on for dear life.  Everything so far
this evening had gone much further than I had intended.

   Jorg was cursing me in a low tone.  I couldn't make out half of it; my
knowledge of German profanity covered the all-stars, the fucks and shits
and damns and once in a while the assholes and such like.  But his profane
vocabulary exceeded mine, though I suspected it suggested anatomical
improbabilities I did not want to see tried.  Suddenly, my stomach heaved
and I burped long and loud.  Pressure that had been threatening to explode,
escaped.  The queasiness vanished and dissolved into a pervasive buzz that
only peripherally threatened to slide off the edge.  Enjoyment of Johann's
ministrations jumped up.  The rigidity in my jaw relaxed.  I opened my
mouth and sucked Jorg in with apologetic abruptness.  His curses broke off
in mid stream and devolved into an extenuated sigh.  I drew him all the way
to the root and locked my lips around his shaft.  Gargling in my throat to
tickle his frenum, his balls tightened against my chin and his hands, which
had been compulsive, acquiesced to a gentle cradling around my ears. 
Employing micro movements to keep him going, I studied his freckled skin
between his navel and the start of a faint treasure line.  Had to be the
Jaeger--it was some out-of-body shit that I'd be in the middle of getting
ass-fucked good and well while fellating another guy and yet focused on the
patterns his public hairs made, tending left-right, left-right in a sort of
curling herringbone.

   Jorg had gone from lion to lamb.  He was really digging my blowjob. 
Whimpering like a little boy.  His head angled back.  His mouth hung open.
His eyes were half-slits.  His tone was entreating and small.  "Please,
please, please" he said.

   Just then, Johann began pounding me really hard at an accelerating pace.
He stiffened, froze, jerked, clutched at my hips, and ground his chest into
my back while nipping at the nape of my neck.  His groans in my ear tracked
his motions, until he finished and frenched my traps and shoulders.  Behind
us at the sofa, an insistent voice gave some kind of command, and Johann
peeled himself off me and pulled out of my rectum.  Jorg began to move like
he was going to jump into Johann's place, but I didn't want that and kept
him in place by sucking him in hard and licking his balls with the tip of
my tongue.  That sent him over the edge and he erupted in my mouth.  Hot,
salty, slick.  One, two, three big swallows, and Jorg was done.  He
withdrew from me, gave me a pathetic, grateful, tender look and hauled
himself off the bed.  "Man, man, man" he muttered.

   Laughter behind me.  But the mocking undertone was gone.  It had been
replaced by eagerness.  The bed jumped with new applicants.  I turned my
head to the side to catch a glimpse of who it was now.  Marco had the
military look with his crewcut, but Sebastian's was the voice of command.
"You get his mouth.  I get his ass." Grabbing me roughly by the ankle he
flipped me over onto my back.  The bright light in my eyes and the reversal
sent the room spinning again.  I grabbed the bedsheet with both hands to
steady the world.

   Sebastian positioned himself at the bottom of the bed and pulled me
flush with its end.  He propped my ankle on his shoulders and began fishing
below for his cock and its imminent connection with my hole.  His
expression was so intense, and a little hard, that I decided not to look at
him while he went about his business.  I felt glad the other guys were
there else play with Sebastian turned into something rougher than my taste.

   Marco clambered onto the bed and straddled my head.  He unceremoniously
plopped his balls onto my lips and pinched my cheeks to get me to open up.
I sucked his purple sack into my mouth and gently tongued the pliant balls
within.  His cock blocked the ceiling light, but his pubes were back-lit
and created a halo effect around his shaft.  Again, the Jaeger had me
drifting in some Other place.

   Sebastian plunged into the loose ground Johann had ploughed up.  He was
not large.  Below average, it felt like.  Maybe why he was so hard-assed.
After Johann's intensity, I honestly couldn't perceive Sebastian's girth as
well as I might have had I started with him.  I lay there unmoved.  I think
that frustrated him because he started going to extreme lengths with his
motions and stabs to elicit a moan from me.  He clutched my genitals with
one free hand and used his thumb to press on my frenum and increase the
friction.  That wasn't working the way he hoped, but the pressure did
return my erection.  He took that as a sign he was on the right path and
started pressing harder past the point of discomfort.  Lord.  I managed a
moan in my throat, somehow making it audible past the fluffy mass of
Marco's scrotum; I had to do something to back the guy off.  Marco, though,
thought the moan was for his benefit and began humming sweet nothings to me
as his baby, how I could have as much of his balls as I needed, etc.  At
another time, not drunk, not being fucked, not dizzy as shit, I would have
laughed.  Another part of me would have pulled on his Sigmund Freud
glasses, pulled up a chair, and started taking notes on how revealing of
their personalities all this commotion was.

   Man, the Jaeger.  I made a mental note to avoid the stuff in the future.
Too weird being disconnected from my surroundings like that.

   Marco told me OK he was going to give me what he knew I really wanted
and shifted his hips to tip his member into my mouth.  Hunching forward he
started fucking my throat.  His loins had an acrid, almost medicinal smell
so I can't say that it was terribly pleasurable.  Then, saved.  A mouth
engulfed my erect cock.  I couldn't see a thing between Marco's balls and
legs, but the brush of a moustache on my shaft told me Fabian had joined
the party.  The broad swath of his tongue had a diffuse effect, and his
motions weren't particularly artful, but he had mastered the art of suction
and before I would have believed he had me gushing into his mouth.  My
contractions flipped a switch with Sebastian, and he hammered me to his
finish.  Pitiful output it was.  Small, mean, inadequate.  I was glad I
didn't interact with that dude on a regular basis.

   Meanwhile Marco has building up his final rhythm, panting, eyes closed.
I had trouble breathing around his floppy balls and struggled to not pass
out from oxygen deprivation and to not reflexively bite down to swallow the
build up of saliva in my mouth.  I was at my limit, with my jaw aching and
beginning to see stars, when he stiffened, caught my head in a vise grip
between his legs, and flooded my throat with hot cum.  I don't know how I
swallowed it, but I did, and the guy rolled off my head and away and I
gasped for air.  Cool air.  Bright light.

   Sebastian had retreated to one of the chairs around the coffee table and
was pouring himself a succession of shots from the green bottle of Jaeger.
God I hoped he passed out before the opiate effect of the liquor ripped
away what little self-control the guy had and revealed his obvious inner
rage.  Marco stood in the background next to the TV, lighting up a
cigarette and grinning at me with a smug look.  Jorg watched me with a sad
little smile and almost puppy-dog like tenderness.

   Fabian, who was still needful, commented to the others over his shoulder
as he rolled me back onto my stomach, "Well, boys, we have saved the best
for last--me!"

   Really it was best he was last.  He was very large.  I doubt he would
have managed it without Johann and Sebastian having loosened me up.  He got
his knob in past my sphincter and slid by inches into my ass.  When I
thought he had bottomed out, he gave a little push and his head forced its
way past my second, inner sphincter and rammed in another couple of inches.
I grunted.  He flexed his cock, and I felt little jets of hot pain as my
body struggled to not split apart.  "Langsam, langsam (slowly, slowly)," I
gulped.  He lay all the way down on top of me.  His chest hairs tickled my
back.  His moustache tickled the back of my neck.  His hot breathe puffed
on my wispy neck hairs and the smell of Irish Cream pipe tobacco enveloped
me.  I had tucked my fists and elbows into a half fetal-ball.  I felt
impaled on a fire hydrant.  I couldn't help grunting and whimpering as he
shifted his weight forward.  His coarse hairy legs moved to the outside of
mine and he pushed mine together to lock me into place.  I prayed he
wouldn't last long and I could seek medical attention to try to get my ass
to close again.  Boy nobody heard that prayer.  It took about ten minutes
of patient, gentle probing but I did become glad of that.

   Fabian for all his size proved an excellent and considerate lover.  The
pain in my ass faded to heat and then to pleasure.  It felt like I was
taking an epic dump at first I was so full.  My body fought to get it out.
Then it surrendered.  A tingling began to build up from places I couldn't
name and coalesce somewhere aft of my balls.  The Jaeger, the overwhelming
sensation, I don't know what it was, but I was quite out of my head.  I
heard a voice keening and begging and moaning and it took several minutes
it was mine.  In the background I heard laughing, jokes, and exclamations
of amazement from the peanut gallery; they must not have seen Fabian fuck
before and I gathered they were duly impressed and were taking notes.  I
would have been, too, if I had had a scrap of focus in me to do it.  I
didn't.  Gone.  I was gone.  The pin had been pulled and I had been rolled
out into the bottomless universe to explode into a new constellation of
ecstatic stars.

   When Fabian pulled out a new trick, withdrawing his dick almost all the
way and hooking the edge of his cock head just inside my sphincter and
rotating it around, convulsive waves emanated from my ass and spread
through the 8th dimension to my cock and via hyperspace up my spine to the
back of my skull.  Every organ in my body bobbed up and down and I shook
and shook.  Fabian plunged all the way in again and piston fucked me in
short, rapid bursts until he moaned, tongued my ear, and whispered, "From
my German cock to your American ass." His cum scorched into me.  I swear it
tingled.  He kept fucking me as it flowed.  It put me in mind of dogs I had
seen breeding where the cur hooks into the bitch and ejaculates into her
for minutes.  Before his cock softened and withdrew, I felt the massive
volume of cum leak out around his shaft in spurts, under pressure, and jet
down my legs and balls.

   He sat back on his haunches, took stock of me laying there.  I watched
him from the delirious corner of my eye.  I was paralyzed from the neck
down.  My nerve pathways had all burnt out, my muscles all lay slack. 
Nodding his head, Fabian stalked back to the coffee table and retrieved his
cold pipe and repacked it with tobacco from the pouch and relit it with
double matches and all the while kept his eyes on me.

   Jorg, Sebastian, Marco had kept on downing shots.  But they were done.
The intensity was gone.  Satisfaction and plain exhaustion was carrying
them away to slumber.  Sebastian exited to the adjoining room and did not
reappear.  Fabian, puffing on his pipe, did likewise.  Jorg fell sideways
out of his chair an onto a single cot that had materialized from somewhere.
Marco stumbled across the room and passed out on top of his bed by the
bathroom.  Johann I could not see, but he showed up before long from the
bathroom, and he tucked me into his bed, on which everything had occurred,
and crawled in next to me.  He was naked and spooned with me.  He had done
most of the positioning.  I could still scarcely move.

   We dozed off that way.  I awoke sometime pre-dawn to the feeling of
Johann's hand sliding up and down between my cheeks.  Cum still oozed out
of my ass and it lubricated things well.  Sensing the change in my
breathing, Johann nuzzled my ear lobe and began nibbling on it.  Languidly
his tongue played behind my ear and then over and into it.  His warm breath
sent shivers up my spine and my dick hardened under the covers.  The hand
that had been playing with my ass slid up and around my chest.  He pinched
my nipples.  Then he caressed my belly, traced the lines of my abs, and
dipped to my groin where he caught my erection in his fist and slowly
jacked me off.  I leaned back into him and parted my legs a bit to give him
better access.  He levered me with his other arm and twisted me back into a
tender kiss.  His tongue filled my mouth and slipped across the fronts of
my teeth.  I moaned and pulled him closer.

   "Now it's just you and me," he whispered, and maneuvered us into a
missionary position.

   "Fuck me baby," I said, pulling him by the hips into me.  No course
correction.  No effort.  He slid in.  He sighed.  I opened to him.  His
curious cock, with its outsized knob, churned up and down.  Johann held me
tight and kissed me like a precious long-term lover.  His longing was
greater than physical.  His pubic hair began to adhere in the drying semen
in my ass-crack.  It made the connection more permanent.  Or less
impermanent.  His balls tightened against me.  Almost without a climax he
spent himself in me again.

   "I need you baby," he sighed into my neck, and kissed me longingly.

   "You can have me anytime, baby," I answered.  At that moment I meant it.
Kissing, fondling, hugging, spooning, we whispered sweet nothings and fell
asleep again.

   When I woke I was alone.  Marco was gone.  Jorg was gone.  Johann was
gone.  Through the open door into the adjoining room I could see
Sebastian's bed was empty.  I surmised Fabian had gone.

   My backpack lay on the sideboard.  My clothes, pressed and clean, hung
in plastic sheathed hangers.  A white envelope lay next to my bag.  I
hauled myself out of bed and opened it.  A brief note signed Burg read,
"The boys thank you for making their tour great.  As agreed, here's your
300 marks plus tips."

   I thumbed through the bills.  There were a thousand marks there.  A
paperclip on the last held a note, which had a phone number and Johann's
name.  I tucked it into the side pocket of my backpack and put the money
into my money belt.

   Smoke and alcohol covered the room and me in a film.  I felt filthy.  I
showered and dressed.  I took up my pack and looked around the room one
last time.  What had happened there I couldn't believe.  It had happened to
someone else, some other time.  But there I was.

   The room door clicked shut behind me.  No one in the hall.  The elevator
was empty.  Downstairs even desk clerks were absent.  Outside, hush.  I
walked outside into a sunny blue sky.  The cobblestones shone.  A pennant
flapped in the breeze across the street.  No one on the sidewalk.  No cars.
I walked out into the street, down the middle, turned the corner.  It was
six blocks before I saw another human being, an old woman sweeping off her
front steps.  She wore a blue kerchief tied around her hair.  She took no
note of me as I passed.

   The boy who had gone into the night before was gone in the light of day.
My thoughts turned to a cute girl in my class I had a crush on.  I wondered
what she was up to at that moment.  I wondered if she was eating her
brotchen and drinking her morning coffee, and I wondered if she had any
idea where I had been or if she would even have cared at all.

   My feet carried me back to the main train station and I caught the train
for Switzerland, connecting in Basel.  Once again I missed my connection
there and had another extraordinary experience, but that's another story...