Richard continued his reminiscences.
“Nicolas? Yes, Nicolas. He was stroking himself and getting very excited. Naturally he was rather annoyed at being left out. So we let him in; he ended by being spit-roasted. We were both rather tired when we staggered back to Versailles Station.
“I was, needless to say, attracted to Jean-Louis and Nicolas suspected that. But I was able in the event to keep up relations with both of them. Nicolas, who was a fils de famille – in other words a spoilt, problem youngest son – had a job, which he disliked, in his family's luxury goods shop in the rue du Faubourg St-Honore. He was working as a glorified salesman, while he was supposed to be learning about management. So, while I often ended the day having dinner with him and spending the night with him in one or other of our studios, I had all day for cultural pursuits and, when he was free, for Jean-Louis.
“Early in our acquaintance Jean-Louis told me that he thought his hyphenated first name was ridiculous and old-fashioned. 'Nobody, but nobody, is called 'Louis' nowadays', according to him. He preferred his middle name, which was Bruno, so I will refer to him henceforth as Bruno. It suited him, with his all-over tan, dark hair, eyes and and complexion.
Richard paused.
“Bruno was a successful commercial artist, running his own atelier called Ad-Art in Versailles. He did quite a lot of work at home but was not averse to being interrupted during the day for a spot of wrestling-with-sex. It was not heavy; we liked each other and laughed a lot.
Sometimes we would go out to lunch. “On those occasions Bruno was very smart in an up-to-date way. He laughed at my blazer and flannels, saying that they looked nineteen-fifties. Of course they did; that's why I liked them. Bruno's look was modern and, while I detested the 1970s as 'the decade that style forgot', there was a fashionable look back then, about 1968-71, that suited him. It was only around for a year or two, because it required the wearer to have the physique of an athlete.”
“Remind me!” I asked.
“You had to have broad shoulders, a triangular torso, a slim waist and muscular legs. With the slightest tummy, or if you were long and skinny, it looked dreadful. Fortunately Bruno fitted the description. He wore 'slim-fit' shirts that were tailored for him; they emphasised his narrow waist; narrow-waisted jackets in colours like dark red and tan; and light-colored tight trousers, which enhanced his genital bulge. They were skin-tight to below the knee; very slightly flared above the ankle. You could only wear the smallest and thinnest briefs, or a thong, under them. The drawback was that you could also carry fuck-all in your trouser-pockets; he solved that by wearing a specially commissioned leather money-belt. On his feet Bruno wore zipped ankle-boots, which were very comfortable and easy to get on and off, as I later discovered.
“The trousers were so tight that, within minutes of putting them on and fastening the belt – no-one wore braces back them – slanted creases would appear at the front, converging on the crotch and emphasising his package, while behind there were horizontal creases below the buttocks. The trousers were low-slung, hip-height. In sum, Bruno was as desirable clothed as he was naked; those trousers were an irresistible invitation to get physical with him.
“And did you ever dress like that?” I asked.
Richard smiled smugly. “Yep! I'll show you the photos sometime. One day Bruno marched me to his men's shop, who kitted me out and after that no way could we keep our hands off each other.” He paused and smirked. Then he continued:
“Sex with Bruno was brilliant. It was not just that I liked his looks and physical strength; it was like sex with an octopus on Speed. He was kooky and inventive! Apart from that, we had something in common: the ability to give, receive and enjoy, pain...”
I was imagining Richard's smooth shaven, pale and muscular body entwined in arabesques with Bruno's dark and hirsute one. Of Richard shouting that special yell which a tight-arsed top bellows when he get deep-ploughed. Dammit, I was fucking jealous. A shadow must have passed over my face. He noticed.
“James, all that was before we met; I was at Cambridge, remember. And I was hardly an innocent; I'd been trained by Gary and Alec.”
He had indeed. Gary had been a Signals NCO instructor in Richard's CCF, while Alec taught boxing and wrestling at a club in the town near his school. Working together for a couple of years in his late teens, they had helped to make Richard an exceptionally strong young man; a good boxer and brilliant wrestler; with the makings of a soldier and the equivalent of a PhD in man-sex. As apprenticeships went, it had been tough but highly successful. Apart from that, Richard played rugby and fenced.
“Once I got to spend the weekend with Bruno. Nicolas was away on a family visit in the Midi. My birthday fell that Saturday and we went out for a celebratory lunch at a restaurant near the Château. Bruno was looking superb: open-necked shirt with red cravat; deep crimson blazer; skintight lightweight trousers and aviator shades. I was dressed similarly but in more subdued colours. We walked in the grounds. Suddenly the fountains began to play – this happened about once a month and we were near the Bassin de Neptune. Beautiful though the spectacle was, the smell, because the water was stagnant, was dreadful. Bruno had suddenly had enough culture for one day. He smiled in a challenging kind of way. 'Come home with me' he said.
“We ran up the stairs to his apartment. Bruno had left some champagne on ice; he now poured us a flute each. I can't tell you how great he looked, sprawled on the sofa, legs wide apart, shirt unbuttoned, dark curly chest-hair glistening. He had a gold chain under his shirt and his present to me had been another. I don't go in for jewellery apart from cufflinks, but that one was rather special; the pendant, when you looked closely, was a cock and balls. Heaven knows where he found that! I still have it somewhere. He lolled there, smiling mischievously at me. He had topped up his tan, which made his white smile stand out. He'd had a haircut and, knowing that I liked crew-cuts – which had never gone out of fashion in France – he had had one. He was so-fucking-desirable, and he knew it.
'I guess you'd like to wrestle?' he smiled.
'Yes!'
'Well, fine. But this evening I want to fuck you!' I must have looked slightly alarmed. 'After all, you've had me twice so far, so that's only fair. And anyway men like you need to be fucked from time to time!'
“I choked on my champagne. “D'you mind explaining that remark, mon ami?'
'Sure. I've got your measure. I like you very much but you're an alpha-fucking male, insufferably cocky, rugbyman. Your “male patriotism” dictates that you must always win – you're miserable when you don't – and that the other guy always gets fucked, literally or metaphorically. Men like you need to be taken down for your own good.'
'If, and only if, you beat me at wrestling, you can do what you like!'
'Tres bien!' And he began to clear a space in the drawing room. Then we stripped. He grinned at me. 'En garde!'
“I knew that, good as he was, I was a better wrestler than Bruno. I expected to subdue him easily enough, although for the sake of his honour - “male patriotism”, if you liked - I would spin out the match and not force him to submit too soon. But he knew a number of unsporting tricks. He got my neck in a questionably legal 'sleeper' hold and I blacked out. When I woke up, I was in Bruno's small home gym. I was also in a piece of equipment that I hadn't seen before. It served no conceivable fitness purpose.
“I was lying on a table. My neck was in a steel collar, secured by wing-nuts. It was not tight; I could move my head about. Attached to that were two steel rods forming a v-shape and kept in place by a spreader-bar. Halfway along them was a pair of steel cuffs which secured my wrists; at the end were two more cuffs, which were bolted round my ankles. These were attached by chains to a stout steel structure that normally formed part of one of Bruno's weight training machines. I was completely at his mercy. I was going to be fucked – raped even - and it was deeply, darkly, exciting!
“Bruno was teasing my cock, which did not need much encouragement. 'Awake, are you now? Your birthday treat is just beginning!' He produced a curved stainless steel instrument with a small cockhead at one and and a large one at the other. Then he rimmed me. That was exquisite; his tongue was hot and rough like a young carnivore's. Then he used his stainless steel toy: he dipped each end in a jar of vaseline. Firstly, the small cockhead, to tease my prostate; then he suddenly plunged in the larger one, as far as it would go. I yelled and almost passed out. Then it was a steel ass-hook with two or three balls, to stretch my ass-muscles for what was coming. Bruno had a very big cock and it was getting longer and harder by the second.
“He then fucked me as thoroughly as Gary had back in the days, in the armoury. But this time, because I was restrained, my 'male patriotism' was not damaged. I had no choice; rape was inevitable; so I was able to enjoy it. It was still sore; I was bellowing with mingled lust and pain, so he hastily shoved a ball-gag in my mouth to stop me from rousing the neighborhood. Eventually we were both exhausted. We showered, dined and later went to bed together. About four a.m. We woke, fresh as daisies, and made tender young love.”
'And did you ever get your revenge? I mean, fuck him in the restraint machine?'
“You bet I did!” Richard grinned reminiscently.
