The German by Lee Thomas Read Free Book Online

not think of the shame just now, only the heat.
    I miss home and the honesty of my peers. There is a puritanical oppression in this country, reminding me of my assignment in Bolivia, late in my military career. There the Catholic Church held men’s thoughts and cocks in an iron grip of guilt-enforced morality. Even during my brief stays in New York and New Orleans, cities known and celebrated for scandalous behavior, the weight of felony rested on my neck. Companions warned of reprisal should our meetings be discovered, many of them – like this Jeffrey – were so infected with shame, they appeared sick and weathered in the moments it took them to dress and flee my bedroom, and I can’t help but wonder what such a weak and frightened existence must feel like, even though the thought of it disgusts me. I would rather die as the man I am than live eternally beneath another man’s mask, but for all of the talk of freedom in this country, this Texas, its cries are delivered in harmony with deceit.
    Jeffrey hurries across my threshold, and I know that he is eager for me to close the door, so my neighbors do not see him in my home. I imagine his car is parked several streets away and if asked on the stroll back to it where he has been, he will tell the inquisitor he’s been to the lake to look at the water, the sky, and the stars.
    He wears a nervous grin on his smooth, handsome face, so different from my own scarred visage, and he asks that I turn out the lamp, which I do, and he mutters a rapid apology for not having greeted me properly in the mercantile, to which I simply shrug because I am not concerned with this man’s treatment of me, as it has grown from shamed soil, and in my darkened living room he removes his hat and places it on the sofa, and he unbuttons his shirt which he drapes over the hat, and he opens the front of his trousers, and his body is a ghost, floating in the gloom before me. The ritual is familiar, and I do not protest it – despite its cold and precise repetition. He will never fully undress in my presence, nor will he embrace or kiss me, but the blood is in my cock and I unbutton my shirt and unsnap my trousers, and remove my undergarments and stand naked in the middle of the room with my clothes discarded on the sofa beside his hat and shirt. I cross to Jeffrey. When my chest presses against him he takes a shocked step back as if in disgust, but he reaches out to touch my hardening cock. His fingers run over the shaft quickly and he feels all around it before his shaking hand reaches lower to cup my scrotum. Then he returns to my prick, touching it without grace or delicacy like a blind man uncertain of what has been put in his grasp but desperate to know its every contour.
    He pulls his own cock through the split in his shorts. It is thick and long and as pale as his shorts. Already his breath comes in rapid gasps.
    I step away from his clumsy touch and he asks what is wrong, and I tell him to sit in the rocking chair beside the sofa, and he doesn’t understand because this is a new demand and he cannot fathom its meaning, and his fear fills the room like radio static, but I tell him to be calm and sit. In the gloom his expression is difficult to read, but not difficult to know – bravery has many faces, but weakness is singular. With a very calm tone, low yet commanding I tell him again to sit in the chair and he shuffles toward it. Once he has sat down, I approach him and kneel between his legs. I take his cock in my mouth, and he groans and shakes and ejaculates. His trembling stops and he tries to stand to make his embarrassed escape, but I keep him in my mouth and shove his chest with my hand. He is a strapping man, but I am stronger, and the chair works to my favor. Several more times he tries to rise from the chair, but I keep him in place with my palm. He calms and allows me to proceed.
    After his third ejaculation and my first I am done with him. When he tries to climb from the