Gay Erotic Stories

(c) Copyright 1999 - 2000, Michael Edmond, All Rights Reserved

Say Something Eloquent and Don’t Click Your Heels

“Ah, good morning, Herr von Hohenland, I mean Herr Edmond.” Herr von Leichen enthusiastically greeted me as I entered his study. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” I answered. My enthusiasm equaled his.

Herr von Leichen was tall and slender, with a striking head of silver hair combed back, each folicle in its ordered place. He had an oval face with hawkish features, especially his prominent nose and piercing eyes. I was glad I wasn’t a field mouse.

With his aristocratic background and his habit of always holding his hands clasped behind him, Leichen’s presence was regal and imperious. Every time he spoke to me, I felt like snapping to attention and clicking my heels together.

He and my Father were friends. When Leichen learned I was coming to Europe, he insisted I stay with him and visit the wineries along the Mosel River, starting with his own.

“So, Herr Edmond, are you ready for a festive day of wine tasting and eating?”

“Yes indeed, Herr von Leichen. Yes indeed.” I rocked on my heels, suppressing the urge to click them.

“Outstanding!” He forcefully announced. “I promised your father I would show you the important wine estates in the valley and I intend to perform my duty.”

I warmly smiled, thinking I should cross my legs before they snapped to attention.

“Are you sure, Michael, you don’t want to be addressed using your ancestral name, ‘von Hohenland?’”

“Oh, quite sure, Herr von Leichen,” I asserted. “I’m used to hearing ‘Edmond.’” I hoped we wouldn’t have a repeat of last night’s lengthy discussion.

Fortunately, Leichen’s assistant, Hans Keller, who looked to be in his late twenties, joined us. Now it was my third leg that wanted to snap to attention.

With his blond hair, just slightly mussed, and his blue eyes, just slightly sparkling behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his muscular body, more than slightly built like an iron cross, Hans was the embodiment of the perfect Germanic-Aryan-Nordic warrior. In other words, he oozed masculinity and sexuality from every pore.

He formally smiled as we shook hands. “Please,” he requested, “call me Hans.”

“And call me Michael . . . please,” I replied. I actually wished he’d call me into his bed.

“Herr Keller will be joining us,” remarked Leichen. “He works for my wine company.” I wondered how long and big his grapevine was and the size of those grapes hanging from his vine, especially how long it had been since they’d been harvested.

“Let’s begin!” announced Leichen. He smartly turned on his heels, as Hans and I followed him outside and across the courtyard to the aging warehouse. Large casks of oak barrels lined the cavernous room and it had a pleasant musty smell.

“As I’m sure you know, Michael,” began Leichen, “for connoisseurs of German wine, there are three important rivers: the Rhine, famous for ‘wetter’ white wines; the Main, famous for Franconian wines in their paunchy bottles; and our own river, the Mosel, whose sun-swept slopes produce the best ‘dry’ white wines in the world.”

I knowingly nodded, my hands clasped behind me, as I examined the Gothic inscription on a cask.

“I understand that Mosel wines may be better this year than Rhine wines,” I casually remarked.

“Really!” Leichen replied. “That’s an unusual comment. They are very different wines. Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, on the grapevine,” I answered. It’s never too early to add a little humor to what looked like to be an otherwise dull lecture.

Hans looked down and muffled a smirk and giggle. Leichen looked at me sternly.

“Your father warned me about you.”

So much for German humor, I thought. I continued to look at the Gothic engraving.

Leichen was clearly enthusiastic about grapes. As we walked down the row of oak casks, he launched into a detailed dissertation about all phases of the business, from the grapevine to the wine.

“So, Herr Edmond,” Leichen asked after a pause in his lecture, “do you have any questions?”

I thought for a moment. Best I ask something intelligent. “Do you still squish the grapes with your feet?”

Leichen looked horrified. “Certainly not! Germany is in the Twentieth Century and has machines for extracting the juice from the grapes.”

“Very good,” I answered without the slightest hesitation. “That’s very healthy and comforting. Shall we continue?”

Hans had turned away and his body looked like it was tense and in pain. After a deep sigh, Leichen continued with his tour.

My interest peaked when Leichen began talking about the fermentation process and the role of yeast.

“We pride ourselves on having some of the region’s most desirable enzymes for our special wines.” Leichen was closely examining a container of yeast.

“Looks to me like they are nothing but sexually hyper-active fungus,” I whispered to Hans. Hans snorted. When Leichen turned to look at us, Hans faked a cough. We moved on to the last topic of Leichen’s dissertation.

“As you can see, Herr Edmond,” he proudly announced, “we only process estate grown grapes. We will never sink to the level of processing bulk grapes from the Balkans or selling ‘table wine.’” I noticed Hans seemed to have different feelings.

“And what is wrong with bulk processing and table wine?” If my college experience was any indication, there was a huge market for bulk wine. I directed my question to Hans.

“Well, except for the lower quality, nothing,” Hans quickly answered. “It’s a growing and prosperous market, with . . .”

“Forget the growing and prosperous market,” interrupted Leichen. “German quality is what counts.”

I smiled, thinking so much for German economics.

“Well, perhaps we should move on to the wine tasting,” I suggested. “It appears there is a lot of fermentation in the market sectors of the wine business.”

Hans had given up trying to suppress his giggles. Leichen shook his head and frowned in disbelief.

The tasting had been set up in the great hall of Leichen’s main house. Coats of arms and armor, along with family crests and paintings of his ancestors, were prominently displayed. The great table was covered with wine bottles. If we drank it all, I thought, how could we move, let alone visit another vineyard.

Leichen poured a glass from one of the bottles. “Here, try this. It’s one of our better wines, a spätlese.”

I thanked him and gently held the glass, slightly turning it and sniffing the aroma, as I had seen my father do. Leichen watched me closely.

I sipped it. It tasted great, so I drank a big gulp.

“Nein! Nein!” Shouted Leichen. “Don’t drink it!”

I froze. Leichen looked horrified and even Hans looked shocked.

“You’re suppose to slosh it around in your mouth and spit it out in this vat.” Cried Leichen, pointing to the porcelain vat next to the table. “Here, try another glass.”

This time I sloshed it around in my mouth and spit it into the vat. Damn, I thought, all this wine and we can’t drink any of it.

“Much better. Much better.” Exclaimed Leichen, somewhat relieved.

“If I can’t drink it,” I asked, “can I at least gargle it?”

“Nein! Absolutely not! Verboten! Ganz Verboten!” Leichen’s horrified look had returned. Hans rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"Are you sure you are your father's son?" Leichen inquired. He stood erect and raised his head, slightly scowling at me.

"Without a doubt," I immediately replied. "Unlike many men, my father knew the father of his son." Somehow that didn't sound quite right, but I continued. “The von Hohenland’s blood flows in my veins. As you know, my father’s ancestors owned extensive estates in Prussia.” I suddenly realized why I felt like clicking my heels together.

“Yes, that’s true,” Leichen slowly answered. He absentmindedly rubbed his chin, contemplating my darker skin, the set of my dark blue eyes, and my curly black hair. “But what of your mother?”

I swallowed. “Her ancestors were also from Europe. A family occupying vast estates in Ireland.”

I decided to skip over the fact that Mom’s ancestors were field hands rather than owners. And then he didn’t need to know about their amorous affiliations with the Spaniards, who shipwrecked on their coast in the late 1500s, or their decision to live in Oklahoma.

He finally sighed and asked, “Well, what did you think of the wine?”

“It tasted swell . . . sort of tart . . . and sweet . . . and maybe dry and wet.” I hoped one of those words would invoke a favorable response.

“Mein Gott!” Cried Leichen. He finally brought his hands out from behind his back and covered his face. “I’m ruined,” he sobbed. “We are visiting some of the most important vineyards and families on the Mosel. After they meet you, they’ll deport me. I’ll end up in Argentina in a Kool-Aid factory!”

Hans came to the rescue. “Say something eloquent, Michael, like the wine has complex complexities, but has fulfilled its promise.”

“I prefer simple complexities in my wine,” I responded, “more on the order of boxed vino.”

“Oh, may the Lord have mercy on me,” cried Leichen. “Work with him, Hans. Please!”

With Hans’ help I practiced tasting, spitting and commenting. Finally, Leichen was composed enough to begin our tour.

We visited all of the important vineyards and wine distributors on the Mosel, from Bernkastel to Traben-Trarbach, to Schloss Zell, to the Weinstube Brixiade in Cochem. After a little practice, I was quite charming and ingratiating. By the end of the day, Leichen was even speaking to me again and discreetly telling our hosts that I was a “von Hohenland.”

“Very good, Michael,” Leichen complemented me, “considering your dismal start this morning.” We were getting out of the car at our last destination, the Landhaus St. Urban.

“The Landhaus, its vineyards and cuisine, are famous,” instructed Leichen. “The only restaurant on the Mosel River to currently rate one star from the renowned French hotel and restaurant guide, Guide Michelin.” The proprietor greeted us at the door, a distinguished and cultured man.

Once inside, he invited us to a private dining room for dinner and a glass of sekt, the German cousin to French champagne. Leichen eagerly inspected the bottle and our host popped the cork. A very cute waiter served us. I thought I noticed Hans also looking at him.

“Mein Herr,” began Leichen in a melodious voice, as he proposed a toast. “We are pleased you have invited us, along with our distinguished American visitor, to dine with you this evening and to enjoy this bottle of sekt from one of the best years. Zum Voll, Mein Herr!” We raised our glasses and sipped the bubbly.

I thought I noticed Hans and Leichen looking at me in horror again, as I swished the sekt in my mouth. But I was distracted by all those bubbles effervescing and tickling my nose. Time seemed to slow down. I thought I heard Leichen shout, “Nein! Nein! Nein!” But I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I couldn’t find the porcelain trough to spit in. So I spat into the empty soup bowel on my plate.

More Effervescing

“Well, how was I to know you don’t spit out sekt?” I asked. Hans was trying to console me after the traumatic evening at the Landhaus.

“It’s true, we didn’t cover that point before the tour,” Hans replied. “Now you know. If the cork pops, the sekt is good. You don’t need to taste it. Just drink it.”

“Yes," I moaned,"speaking of cocks popping - I mean corks . . .” Hans’ mouth took another powerful suck on the neck of my own effervescing bottle.

We were in my room, nude and comfortably spread out on my bed, with only the moonlight and summer sounds of the night filtering in through the open window.

With his typical Germanic thoroughness, Hans was working his strong lips around my rigid shaft. And with each suck of my cock by his forceful mouth, my frustrations seemed to bubble away.

“Well, I guess I can understand why Herr Leichen jumped at me. But he didn’t have to swear so much . . . Oh, FUCK!” I moaned. Hans’ tight lips plunged to the base of my thick meat and his throat lovingly encased my throbbing tip.

“That’s so good,” I gasped. My abs tensed, pushing my hips into his face and my cock deeper into his throat. Hans swiftly and firmly pumped his mouth up and down my hard tube, while his fingers gently stroked and pulled on my balls. A warm smile grew on my face, as I drifted in ecstasy. Deeper and harder he sucked, varying his rhythm and the tightness of his wet lips.

He slowed and twisted his mouth up my shaft, resting his lips on my cockhead. I felt as if I was going to explode from the sensation. Gently pulling down my skin, his lips began massaging my crown, then his mouth slowly covered all of my head in a luscious, wet embrace. As his strong lips sucked my entire cap, he rubbed his wet tongue under my cockhead, raking it up and down against the nexus of nerves and cords.

“OH, CHRIST!” I cried, as my body tensed and my cum frothed up my bulging dick. His tongue and lips were all over my cockhead, slurping and licking and sucking. I arched my back. It felt as if his wet lips and mouth were sensuously stroking every nerve in my groin, catapulting my jism towards ejaculation.

“Ahgggg!” I cried, as my body heaved a hot load, then jerked again as another load discharged. Hans squeezed my balls, as if he were milking them of every last drop of their nectar. My cock throbbed and throbbed again, spewing more sweet juice into his mouth. I cried out and wrenched with each discharge.

After my withering had subsided, he slowly pulled off. When his mouth let go, my cock slapped onto my stomach, jism still oozing out of my slit, dripping into my navel. “Oh Hans. God, I needed that.”

He gently rubbed my softening cock. “Umm,” he whispered, as he licked his lips, “you are so smooth and easy-drinking, a combination of unique character and elegance.”

All my anxieties over the dinner had evaporated with my ejaculation. I breathed and sighed deeply, as he snuggled next to me and warmly massaged my chest. A sense of complete relaxation draped over me, as I receded into the warm bliss of sleep.

Awhile later, I stirred from Hans’ passionate kiss. Only it wasn’t his lips I was feeling. Even in the dim light, when I opened my eyes, I could see his monster cock, its huge and thick ivory shaft bobbing in front of me, with its tight foreskin pulled halfway over his German helmet. Veins laced around and down his shaft like heavy cords, disappearing into a luscious patch of silky blond pubic hair. His balls were massive orbs, loosely nestling together in a sack of smooth, white skin and resting on my chest.

I opened my mouth and eagerly accepted his root, tasting its warm, salty flavor. As I lavished my lips around his enormous bulb, he moaned sweetly, twisting and turning his body, straining, as his thick muscles flexed and shimmered in the shadowy light. Clasping his tight ass with both hands, my fingers dug into his muscular flesh and I pulled, sinking his cock deeper into my throat.

Holding on to the headboard, he groaned and began pumping his hips, fucking my face, sloshing his wet meat back and forth in my mouth. Oh God! With each thrust of his cock, I could feel his gigantic balls dragging and rubbing across my upper chest and slapping my neck. I opened wider to him, as he beat faster.

Harder he pumped, wildly thrusting his tool deeper into my throat. My head beat against my pillow and the whole bed shook. He turned and withered like an obsessed animal.

I felt his balls lift off my chest, pulling tighter into his groin. Precum and saliva were frothing out of my mouth with each thrust. I reached for his sac of heavy jewels.

“Ah! Mein Gott!” He cried out, as my fingers wrapped around his weighty spheres. He froze, his face wincing and his body coiling. With an incredible groan, his whole body jerked. The sensation was one of a champagne bottle erupting, of effervescing liquid splashing over me. His cum filled my throat in jarring throbs, as his massive rod pinned me against the headboard. All I could do was massage those enormous globes and swallow as much as possible. On he pumped, as his jism squirted into me. Finally, with one last jerk, he was completely gratified.

“Oooh!” He moaned, his breath heaving, as his cock slipped out of my mouth and his limp body fell on me. “Wunderbar! Wunderbar!”

We wrapped our arms around each other, as he passionately kissed me, licking his tongue in my mouth, running his fingers through my hair. Oh Christ, he felt good. There’s something so wonderful about the feel of a man after sex. The soft, glowing skin and loose, limber muscles.

When we awoke from a light doze, he sighed, tracing his finger around my lips.

“Herr von Leichen has ordered me to teach you everything about Mosel wines and the etiquette of tasting and drinking,” Hans whispered. “He refuses to let you leave without a proper education. Something about a threat to Western Civilization.”

“And I assume that means learning more about his wine assistant,” I grinned, snuggling closer to him. “Especially his large grapes and thick vine, which is older, heavier, more forward, and delivers what it promises, one of the more promiscuous and erotic vines in the valley, whose nectar is refreshing and crisp on the palate with a delicate sparkle.”

Hans groaned luxuriously and wiggled closer to me, as I felt his cock twitch.

“Certainly. It will be my pleasure.” He nuzzled his face against my neck and slipped his hand around my cock, gently pulling on it. “And I will learn about you. I have always been attracted to youthful and energetic vintages, particularly the complex and intellectual types, which take longer to fully know, but which bestow the greatest rewards when their fresh, lively and full nectar can be slowly tasted and appreciated.”

He barely finished his words before his mouth draped around my stiffening shaft in a lustful caress. As I inhaled deeply from the surge of pleasure, I closed my eyes. It was indeed going to be a great year for the nectar of the Gods.

Das Ende

Compliments - Complaints - Comments

edmond_michael@hotmail.com

For more stories, please visit my website: http://wwww.pridesites.com/teen/mickedmond/