Pieter Kohler

Wedding Gift

After showering, Reinhardt drove his black Porsche to a photo shoot in a luxury condo outside of Berlin: a commercial for men’s body wash. Which meant taking another shower. Following the director’s orders, an old man who wore a brown leather jacket and red foulard, he stripped and showered in a stall covered with Italian marble. Wash your arms and chest, raise your legs one at a time, slowly lather your muscles, finger the foam, rinse off: the director issued staccato instructions. 

The camera followed Reinhardt’s every move, focussed on water dripping down his pecs, back and quadriceps, to be edited and broadcast when the manufacturer chose, after approving the images. He knew his body pleased, hence the phone call from his part time agent, who had also landed him roles in the porn industry and a couple of small movie parts, plus modelling gigs now and then. 

They all paid well, especially the commercials. Not as much fun as fucking but equally lucrative. He enjoyed the shower, moved his powerful physique suggestively, and suspected the woman who operated the camera focussed on his stirring genitals, responsive to the female gaze, even though they wouldn’t appear in the final cut. She was a bright and cheery thing, her hair blonde and loose, maybe too skinny. As he soaped, he imagined her lips around his rising cock. He didn’t attempt to hide it since he was never embarrassed when nature took its course. Besides, a cock hardening at inopportune moments often led to exciting times afterwards, but not today. 

The camera woman, however friendly and seemingly unaffected by his naked body, was all business. When the shoot was over, Reinhardt noticed that she had quickly glanced and smiled at his dick before leaving. He’d miss his gym workout today because he had a busy schedule ahead of him. An artist living in a Berlin suburb, paralyzed from the waist down, had hired him to pose for a drawing session, and then lift him out of the wheel chair, place him on a bed, head hanging over the edge of the mattress, and deep throat him until he shot his load and the man gulped it down. He needed to feed on Reinhardt’s superman strength and vitality, he had said in a text. A three-hour session. 

After that, Reinhardt had an early supper meeting with a middle-aged married couple who wanted a young bull to dominate them, the husband to be humiliated and degraded. He had suggested going to the Alexanderplatz to discuss scenarios and terms of agreement, but they didn’t want to risk running into someone they knew. They agreed to meet at a Macdonald’s a few kilometres from their home. 

His cousin’s wedding in Leipzig was in two days to which he had been invited. Having neglected to buy a wedding gift, he had no time to search for one, but he guessed 200 hundred Euros in a card would suffice. His cousin Hans was a chemistry professor at the University of Leipzig. Reinhardt’s mother compared his achievements with her son’s, and heaved her bosom in disappointment. She had this unaccountable admiration for professors. Having fucked, flogged, and pissed on a few, Reinhardt didn’t share her feelings. 

Hans was marrying an English girl who was doing graduated work in German philosophy. When his mother showed him a picture of the woman, Reinhardt’s felt a tingle in his balls. A redhead, which he loved. He wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her in her wedding dress, if circumstances permitted. He became so entranced by the idea that his cock pushed hard against the constraints of his Calvin Klein underwear. 

In Leipzig, the nuptials were taking place in the famous Thomaskirche, where Bach had been kappellmeister and was now buried. After booking into his hotel, and changing clothes, he drove to the church. Once parked, Reinhardt loitered outside the church doors, waiting for the bride’s limousine to appear, which it soon did. He stepped aside so as not to be in the way, but got a good look at the woman swathed in reams of white silk and tulle, surrounded by four bridesmaids in yellow gowns. He rubbed his genitals discreetly as he caught a glimpse of her pretty face and glimmering red hair before her maid of honour lowered the veil. 

Yes, he’d love to fuck Jane in the gown before her husband did. Maybe he could get Hans to watch his bride ravished by his cousin. Hans was a recessive kind of beta male, subservient to his superiors, soft-spoken, limp brown hair, sloping shoulders, and more at home in a library than a party. He’d be easy to cuckold and probably, if he confessed to the truth of his desires, wanted to be. 

Well, Reinhardt could help him realize his deepest, most perverted dreams since Hans admired powerful men, like some academics who still paid Reinhardt to humiliate and fuck them. Maybe Hans was secretly into Nazi uniforms and craved licking his superior’s black leather boots. He had worn such a costume to please a girl he had liked, no money involved, and now had a few customers, male and female, who paid to be fucked by a Kommandant and grovel at and lick his boots. He decided to get to know his cousin better, become a caring friend, dominate the professor of chemistry and freely fuck his wife. Whenever he wanted. A not impossible dream. 

He remembered a porn flick in which he played the groom’s best man and fucked the bride in the limousine before she arrived at the church, having to readjust her hair and veil, his cum leaking out of her cunt. He had loved that scenario. The bitch in that porno also had red hair. Another episode he had watched with the crew: bride and groom kidnapped and gangbanged by four skinheads in tight, blue mottled jeans and high-laced boots, the groom tied up on a chair in an abandoned warehouse, his tie stuffed in his mouth, as he was forced to watch the skinheads rape his wife, still in her dress puffed up like a cloud around her waist. 

So many brides fucked in porn on their wedding day: must be a universal fantasy: one of his favourite scenes depicted a black man, a wedding guest in a tuxedo, hoisting a white bride around his waist in a shower stall and fucking her until her bridal gown got thoroughly soaked, and he left her huddled in the corner like a lump of wet laundry. The astonished groom watching all the time and rubbing his crotch.

Why he was thinking about this, Reinhardt didn’t quite know. Well, he did know, as he thought about sex all the time. And his cock was his guide, the source of his decisions in many ways, unerring in its instinct to choose the right partner or partners, as if there was such a thing as phallocentric certainty like a physical law of the universe. His cock acted according to infallible principles like gravity. As the bride entered the church, it grew bigger and harder. So, the cock knew the truth of the matter. Despite his belief in its truth-telling powers, Reinhardt was intelligent enough to know that his desire was irrational, a mere fantasy and urging of superman virility at the sight of a pretty, red-haired, potentially submissive cunt, whom he could own, if he chose. 

He was master of his cock, master of any situation in which he found himself. Just as he chose to develop his body and keep it splendid and pure, so he could stride with confident authority in the universe of his own making. He could choose to ignore the demands and logic of his insatiable Schwanz, but it was stubbornly insistent at the moment. Even in a church famous for its kappellmeister, where people said all kinds of religious things in which he didn’t believe, the cock wanted action. 

The reception would be held in a hall at the university, and there Reinhardt would dance with his cousin’s bride. He would speak to her warmly, shower her with compliments, and hold her a bit closer than one ordinarily would, and suppress any urge of his cock to fuck on the dance floor. He’d welcome her as the newest member of his family, and he was so happy to know that Hans had married such a beautiful and intelligent woman. He would also reconnect with Hans and become very friendly with him. Hans would always defer to him. 

Even though they hadn’t seen each other for a few years, he remembered how they had played together as boys. Despite being two years older than Reinhardt, Hans always followed his orders and did whatever he wanted. At thirteen Reinhardt had shown Hans his vigorous cock, and Hans, flustered and hesitant, obediently revealed his, less impressive. They had jerked off together, looking at internet porn, and Hans had stroked Reinhardt’s cock and fondled his cousin’s balls. Reinhardt regretted that he hadn’t then persuaded Hans take it in his mouth. What he didn’t do as a boy, Hans would most definitely hunger for as a married man. 

They’d arrange to get together after the wedding. He, Reinhardt, would drive to Leipzig where Hans could show him the university. And soon he’d be inviting Reinhardt to his house for dinners. The images of fucking Jane in the marriage bed in her wedding gown shook him to the roots of his being. Despite the urging of his cock, he wasn’t in a porn flick now where impossible fucks occurred at a whim. Still, he’d shag Jane and give her the generous blessing of his vital seed deep, maybe impregnate her. Of course, properly trained and eager to felch, Hans the professor would beg for permission to suck his bull’s cum leaking out of his Jane’s lovely ass. Or join Reinhardt in the shower to gobble his superman Schwanz and swallow alpha juice like a thirsty pig. 

What would his mother think if she ever knew that the professor, whom she praised to the sky for his academic achievements, had become her son’s worshipping cocksucker and obedient slave? Although it would take time, he could hardly wait to give the couple the perfect gift of his domination, better than Euros. The first organ chords clanged out, not his favourite kind of sound or music. The bridal procession was about to begin. Reinhardt slipped into the church and sat alone at the back, his plans for the future heating up inside his Hugo Boss suit.