Death on the Rhine Ch. 11

"There, do you like it like that?"

"Oh, God, yes. Like that. And deeper, deeper." Folsom was groaning at the fucking he was receiving from the bruiser.

"Then open wider so I can get down there. Ya, like that. Ya, that's good. Sehr gut."

Ohhh, ahhhh. m-o-a-nnnn.

Folsom was on his knees on the mattress, his chest flat on the bed and hanging onto the brass rods in the headboard of Fritz the bruiser's bed for all he was worth. The bruiser was on his knees behind Folsom. He held Folsom's hips steady with his beefy hands, and he'd been working at getting his cock deep inside Folsom for a couple of minutes now. The morning light, such as it was, was streaming in the window above the bed, across naked, heaving, sweating bodies. It had been a wild, semen-flooded night, but it was going to be a rather gloomy day in Cologne. Already the street noise of a busy commerce day intruded into the room, mixing with German exclamations of passion and approval and Folsom's gruntings and groanings and cries and sighs.

Plumbing deeper and deeper. One of the bruiser's fists went to between Folsom's shoulder blades, pushing him into the mattress, urging Folsom to raise his butt even farther to his invading sledgehammer. Pump. Push. Pump. Dive. Moooaaannn.

"Oh, Christ. Oh, God. I . . . can't . . . take . . . any . . . ohhhhhhhhhh."

Folsom's fists were flexing and gripping on the brass rods to the rhythm of the German's intense stroking and digging. He wanted to scream. To cry out in ecstasy and release and throbbing fulfillment. But the bruiser had warned him the night before of how thin the walls were in these blocks of flats. So, he bunched up sheeting into his mouth from the pillow his face was being smashed into and bit down on the wadding hard.

Retreat. Slide. Relief. Plunge. "Arghhhhhhh. Yes, yes, oh y-e-s-s!"

"Gute, gute. I'm in."

"Ooffff." The bruiser was pushing Folsom's hips to the mattress and coming down with him, remaining dug in to his root. His chest was pushing into Folsom's shoulders, and his strong legs were enscasing Folsom's thighs and pulling them together.

"Oh, oh." Stretched and filled like never before that night. Throbbing cock, buried deep. Ass wall, undulating, caressing engorged cock. The German grunting and groaning now as well. Hand working its way between Folsom's chest and the mattress, finding and tweaking a nipple. The thumb of the other hand wrapping around and finding Folsom's mouth. Folsom pulling it in with his lips and giving suck. Folsom's fists on the brass rods. Opening and closing. Tightening and flexing—to the rhythm of the fuck.

Fritz began swiveling his midsection around on Folsom's butt now. Grinding into his ass at all angles and Folsom was panting and groaning, loving every second of it. Whimpering to be taken deep and hard.

The bruiser loosing control now, going wild. Rotating his cock around inside Folsom with undulating movements of his hips. Withdrawing and slamming back in and rotating his pelvis. Both crying out in harmony for the intensity of it, urging more intensity. Folsom moving his hips in a countermotion against Fritz. Both trying to move as one sychronized perfect fucking machine.

Folsom cried out in death, the death of ejaculation. Warm, sticky fluid spreading between his belly and the mattress.

The bruiser came back up on his knees behind Folsom and pulled his cock out. He jerked the condom off and flipped it onto the floor, on top of the others lying there. Throbbing tool in hand, he stroked three times, gave a cry and spouted white, cloudy semen across the small of Folsom's back. The two sighed and murmured, as the bruiser spread the fluid around on Folsom's back with his still-hard cock, working the salve into Folsom's skin. Folsom came up on his knees and turned his face to the German's and the two kissed deeply, the bruiser holding Folsom to him with a hand on his belly.

When they disengaged, the bruiser pushed Folsom's chest back to the mattress with a firm hand between his shoulder blades and reached over to the nightstand and fished out another packet. He opened that with his teeth, and extracted the disk. He rolled the condom out on his still-engorged cock and then entered Folsom once again with a forceful thrust and a slap on his butt cheek.

Folsom moaned deeply. His fists opened and closed on the brass rods. Flexing and releasing—to the rhythm of the fuck.

Later, the room now as bathed as it was going to be in the light of day, the German was cuddling Folsom, both stretched out on the bed, Folsom's back encased by the German's strong torso, humming with great satisfaction to themselves in the afterglow of night-long sex.

"That was incredible," the bruiser whispered. "You can stay here forever. I don't care what you did. I'll protect you."

"That sounds nice," Folsom said. "But I think it's afternoon already. I have to be somewhere at four this afternoon and I want a couple of hours free to do something first—and all of this lovin' has made me hungry. Do you think I have enough tail on credit here for some food."

"Naturlich," the German responded with a hoarse laugh. "Here, you can eat this again." And then he took his cock in his hand and slapped it against Folsom's thigh.

"Later. Gladly later," Folsom said, joining in the bruiser's joke. "But how about some real food now, and then I'd best be on about my business."

As they were finishing up their meal, the German covered Folsom's hand with his and looked deeply into his eyes with some concern.

"I'm worried about you out there on the street alone. If you have to go out, why don't you let me go with you—to protect your back?"

Folsom tried to keep the conversation light. "I think you're the one I need to protect my back from. How many times have you attacked me from the rear already last night and today?"

"Maybe once or twice," the bruiser answered with a straight face. And then he broke into a broad grin. "OK, OK, maybe five or six or nine times. But you seemed to be enjoying my visits. Viellicht we have time for another visit before you have to go, nein?" His eyes were twinkling and the hand he wasn't covering Folsom's with had found Folsom's basket.

"No, nein," Folsom said with a laugh as he slapped at the German's intrusive hand. "But seriously, don't you have to work today? Roman said something about you being security for a club."

"Ya, it's a very nice club," the German answered. "It's called Chains. You'd fit in there very well. I'll have to take you there. But, no I don't have to work today. Yesterday and today are my days off. I'll have to work tomorrow night. There's a lot of time for us between now and then."

"Well, I'm sure I can handle this little outing on my own. I think I can find the cathedral again without any trouble, and I found my way here, so I know I can get back. You'd better sleep today. You'll need your rest and strength for tonight. I'll be back."

Both gave a hearty laugh and moved into a "good-bye for now" kiss.

At fifteen after three, Folsom was back on the street and headed in the direction of the Rhine and the cathedral, whose towers he could see in the distance as he reached each intersection. He also was looking for the Internet café he'd seen on his way to the bruiser's last night.

Ah, yes, there it was—on Brückenstrasse. A café downstairs and a bank of Internet-linked computers along a counter with stools on the second floor. He paid 2 euros to cover the first hour of use and went up the stairs. The clerk had told him which computer had an English-language keyboard. He wouldn't have known that the Europeans had a slightly different keyboard than Americans did. If he hadn't been given the right keyboard, all of his y's would have come out as z's, and vice versa. Probably no problem, really. Trudi probably could have figured it out. Trudi, the squad's researcher was brilliant—and fast.

Folsom was praying Trudi would be fast today—and not prone to asking too many questions. Actually, it would be morning where she was.

Trudi was great, though. After he had keyed in that he couldn't answer questions and needed this information asap, she settled right down to business. He tapped out the eight names he needed a specific question answered for and then sat, agonizing, at the machine, nursing the cup of strong coffee he'd brought up from the café downstairs. He had finished that one and was pining for another before Trudi got back to him. But he stuck with the computer. He couldn't risk missing Trudi's answer.

When the answer appeared on the screen, he almost couldn't believe it—but then, it did make sense. Those four. Not the others, just those four. He'd rather hoped it would only be two, then he'd have known what to do. But there were four of them. He'd have to give this some more thought.

He looked up at the clock. It already has hard on four o'clock, and he had a good three blocks to go before he reached the cathedral. And then there was the problem of finding Tiho. The cathedral was huge, as was the plaza in front of it. And it always was swarming with visitors. One of the largest in the world, it had escaped bombing in World War II for its value as a beacon for Allied bombers, and so it was one of the most important surviving religious buildings on the European continent.

Folsom reached the cathedral plaza. He scanned the crowds, but there was no Tiho there as far as he could tell. So, he went inside and moved around the periphery of the main chamber.

There, there, over in the corner. He could see him now. Tiho was there. And he looked scared and lost and very, very nervous. Tiho had seen Folsom now and gestured for Folsom to follow him. Tiho moved off toward a small side chapel, where few were praying and wandering about. When Folsom entered the chapel looked about in panic. Tiho was nowhere to be found. But then Folsom saw that a door to a confessional cubicle was open and he could barely see that Tiho was inside, beckoning to him.

Folsom entered the confessional and hugged the small waiter, trying to assure him and let him know he was safe. They turned in the cubicle until Folsom's back was to the back wall. Tiho was in a state, and Folsom endeavored to calm him—with kisses and fumblings and strategic uncoverings and Tiho sinking his ass on Folsom's cock as the latter half crouched in the confining cubicle and ran the slight, burbling waiter up and down on his pole. The young man was arched back against the confessional door, his legs spread as wide as he could get them around Folsom's hips, his feet pressed into the back corners of the confessional, his fingers laced behind his head in the grill of the window in the confessional door.

"Oh, oh, you fill me so. You're so good in me. I think I'm going to . . ." And he did cum, and the ejaculation caused him to calm down enough that, while still gently pumping Tiho's ass up and down on his hard cock, Folsom could coax him to talk. , Folsom asked Tiho what he had to pass on and why he couldn't have told him on the ship.

"If I'd . . ." m-o-a-n "told you I'd seen Frist in the captain's cabin back there on the ship last night, you wouldn't have left when you did," Tiho said. And then, "Oh, yes, oh, yes. Just like that . . ."

"You're probably right," Folsom said, his hands relentlessly pumping the hips of the young man up and down on his tool. "Go on, I'm glad to know Frist is still alive and with the captain, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Yes . . Ahhhhhh, yes. . . I was serving a dinner to them both in the captain's cabin, and I . . . oh God, yes . . . I heard snatches of them talking about the murders. And then he came in and . . . Ugh." Tiho lurched again, and Folsom assumed he'd had a second orgiastic death. But it wasn't that kind of death.

"He? He who, Tiho?"

But Tiho couldn't answer. He was just hunched there, his back against the cubicle door and his legs now dangling on the outside of Folsom's thighs, his feet on the confessional bench. He had a surprised, dazed, lost look in his eyes. An intense look. A look edged with pain and an unanswered question of "why."

"Tiho, Tiho," Folsom put his arms around the young waiter as he slumped against Folsom's chest. And Folsom felt his hands get wet. He pulled them away. Blood. His hands were covered with blood.