Services Rendered
Healthy, muscular, versatile, free to travel, discretion assured: the words appeared in every one of Reinhardt’s online descriptions in selected websites. He’d do anything, he’d do anyone, wear what and play whatever game his clients desired anywhere within the European Union. This morning, he showered and trimmed his pubic hair, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror. Thinking of getting his hair sheared like a skinhead’s, he slipped into his special outfit of tight leather pants, worn construction boots, Egyptian cotton shirt, and leather bomber jacket. Dressed to play, he got into his Porsche. When he pulled into the street, he remembered that he had promised to meet his parents in the Alexanderplatz for dinner that evening, but he’d be back in time, if there was no traffic jam on the Autobahn between Berlin and Dresden.
It never ceased to amaze him how many soft-bellied, middle-aged, and older men wanted him to smack them. Take this minister he satisfied yesterday. A nice guy, over 50, balding, glasses, with two children in university, his wife deceased, he had greeted Reinhardt at the door. The first thing Reinhardt did, obeying the minister’s instructions, he slapped the man across the face, not too hard, called him bitch, and commanded him to worship his god. The minister slowly caressed Reinhardt’s muscles through the clothes. Breathing noisily, he removed first the leather jacket and inhaled its aroma, and then he unbuttoned the Egyptian cotton shirt, separating the panels to allow access to Reinhardt’s pectorals, nipples, and washboard abs. Reinhardt only had to stand and tell him what to do and call him names while the minister ran his tongue over the hard pecs and stomach. After he pulled the shirt off, he kissed Reinhardt’s flexed biceps and buried his nose in the armpits. He ran his tongue down the exquisite back and, lowering the tight leather pants, tongued the buttocks and powerful thighs, licking and kissing and mumbling my God, my God, I adore you.
When he could no longer resist Reinhardt’s immortal cock, he practically gobbled it down his throat. The man of God liked to feel it deep in his gullet for 15 minutes without moving, not even sucking. Once he did begin to suck, Reinhardt smacked him across the side of the head, warning him about teeth. When he was ready to shoot, he withdrew from the minister’s mouth and sprayed his blessed juice, to use the minister’s words, all over the man’s face. Afterwards, Reinhardt took a shower while the minister sat on the toilet and prayed, asked the Christian God for forgiveness. In the hallway, Reinhardt found an envelope containing the fee for his services.
After his morning session with the minister, he had an appointment in the afternoon with an old woman, just under 70, who liked Reinhardt to carry, finger her dry cunt and say she was still desirable. €300 for a monthly meeting, and that was his fifth time. She wore a Victoria’s Secret negligee and open-crotch, black lace panties, curled herself in his arms against his chest and whimpered: please don’t hurt me, please love me. He was gentle, carrying her about the bedroom, and whispering that he was going to make such beautiful love to her that she’d sleep like a baby afterwards and dream of him forever and ever.
He laid her on her bed covered with a silky, shimmering red duvet, gently fondled her sagging, skimpy breasts, and fingered her dry cunt for a while, applying ointment, making certain she was well lubricated before he softly separated her legs and placed the glans of his cock against her hairless, wrinkled vagina. Gently he pushed in between the labial lips, judging by her moans and body movements how much and how hard he could go. He was careful not to press his full weight against her frail body, fearful that he might break a bone or cause her extreme discomfort, her moans of pleasure turning to cries of pain. At least four, maybe five inches of his nine and one quarter-inched cock never made it all the way in. His spunk spilled out of her ancient cunt, as if there was a blockage preventing it from exploding into her useless womb. He couldn’t tell if she ever climaxed, but she seemed to enjoy whatever sensations thrilled her tired, old body. And she liked to feel his cum with her fingers and lick them.
He chose clients online carefully, people afraid of exposure to their friends and family and who wanted to act out their sexual fantasies in complete secrecy and were willing to pay for the privilege. If they refused an advanced direct deposit in his special account, he dropped negotiations instantly. Only a few had declined. Reinhardt considered his clients unlikely to be infected with STDs. He preferred not to wear condoms, unless clients insisted. After a stint in the porn industry, where his huge German cock was a highly-prized commodity, especially when he dressed in an SS uniform, he had decided to go it alone and keep all his earnings for himself.
Health was always a consideration, so he never fucked anyone he met in bars or mosh pits, or who were too public about their preferences, too indiscriminate or too stoned to be trusted. He checked his own health monthly with an understanding doctor in Berlin who worked with prostitutes. Reinhardt sometimes skull-fucked him for free because he liked the doctor. He gave such expert and long blowjobs while still wearing his black-rimmed glasses and stethoscope around his neck. Knowing that Reinhardt was healthy, he swallowed the dollops of thick jism without wasting a drop.
Vaccinated against hepatitis, COVID, monkeypox, and whatever else they had a vaccine for, thus far he had escaped STDs of any kind. He did get a bad cold that kept him out of commission for a week. He had contracted it from a university professor in Hamburg, a skinny man with a nasally voice who droned on about Schopenhauer, sniffled and coughed as he sucked Reinhardt’s tongue and lips (Reinhardt charged extra for kissing), balls and cock, before rolling on the floor as Reinhardt whacked him with his leather belt before pissing all over his face and suit. That gave Reinhardt special pleasure as he discovered great joy in satisfying the humiliation fantasies of his clients.
He did not suck cock himself, although he would expertly eat out a woman until she swooned from sheer ecstasy. Nor did he allow anyone to fuck him. He was an alpha stud paid to dominate and humiliate, or simply to fuck a customer like the old lady who couldn’t get it from anyone else. Because he wasn’t judgmental about appearances or age and open to most activities, his client list was lengthy. His calendar of appointments was full, and he had to be careful with his time, on some days agreeing to service three clients, usually one to three hours each, the fee depending upon desires and time allotted. He also didn’t do scat: coprophilia was not to his taste, so to speak, but thus far no one had asked him to do that. Because some clients liked to eat his ass, which was fine by him, he douched it every day.
Occasionally after a beating, a client might bleed from the nose or have a cut lip. There could be some blood after a particularly hard fucking, at the customer’s request, seeping out of the client’s asshole. So far, the clients hadn’t protested. One man, though, a retired judge, wanted Reinhardt to shackle him to a St. Andrew’s cross in his basement and lash him viciously with a cat o’ nine tails until he cried and red welts rose on his skin. No fucking, just a whipping. Reinhardt, who didn’t consider himself a sadist, got no pleasure out of extreme abuse, although he did see the judge again, after increasing his fee, and whipped as hard as the old bitch wanted.
He charged extra for his specialty: breath control. A lawyer paid Reinhardt to choke him with an Italian silk tie, as he got on all fours and Reinhardt hunched over his body and ploughed his ass while pulling the tie around his neck like a dog’s leash, pulling hard until he heard the lawyer cough and gasp. Turning him over, he continued to fuck him while the client struggled to loosen the tie. Then Reinhardt would let go of the tie and place his large hands around the lawyer’s throat and begin to press, feeling the throat muscles and listening for the man’s breath and seeing how the body reacted. He knew how much pressure to apply and for how long. He had practised on himself in the mirror, keeping an eye on a nearby timer. Red in the face did not necessarily mean interior damage, and when the lawyer’s cock exploded with watery cum, Reinhardt knew that he had succeeded. After lying on the floor gasping, wrapping himself around Reinhardt’s legs, the lawyer was happy to pay the extra fee. And, of course, he wanted Reinhardt to piss on him, right there, on the floor, all over his head and face and body. Which Reinhardt gladly agreed to do.
The client he was meeting today wanted to be fucked to death, literally, by a working man with muscles, and had offered Reinhardt €10,000 to do it. The money would be in a satchel on the table by the bed where the customer wanted it to happen. Stricken with a terminal illness, although he seemed healthy enough for a 46-year-old man, he’d soon deteriorate and suffer dreadfully, he had said, and wanted to die from cock rather than cancer. This posed a problem for Reinhardt because he wondered how to perform the action, not just fucking, but fucking a man to death. Sure, he had said it a few times in the throes of passion, I’m going to fuck you to death, cunt, but it was all part of a game.
This particular guy wanted the real thing. It sounded like murder, although the man preferred the term assisted suicide. In any case, Reinhardt’s DNA would be all over the place, on the man’s skin, in his mouth, in his ass, whether Reinhardt used a condom or not. Even though they would meet in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Dresden, which the man owned and which had escaped the firebombing in WWII, Reinhardt had his doubts.
How long would he have to fuck the guy before the poor man succumbed to the power of a demanding, drilling cock and died? He couldn’t find any information about it on the Internet. He could fuck for an hour, maybe more, before shooting his load, then rise to the occasion a few minutes later. At most, he could fuck four times, maybe five, within three hours, after which his dick needed a rest, and his balls time to collect more semen. That wouldn’t, however, kill the man. Maybe he should have suggested bringing one or two other men to join in the fucking, but his client wanted only one, and he had chosen Reinhardt. Choking him to death while getting fucked would be the most efficient way of doing it. Or have his head covered with a plastic bag. Timing was everything: ideally, the customer wanted hot flesh embracing him at the moment of his simultaneous ejaculation and demise. The very minute. How could Reinhardt time that? Of course, he could just fuck and strangle until the man died, whether the pathetic bitch came or not. But Reinhardt liked to think of himself as an honorable man who respected the terms of a contract.
Great questions arose. What happened to the body afterwards? Had the client made suitable arrangements for disposal? And would he, Reinhardt, get away with it? Given that they had met online and arranged matters accordingly, wouldn’t there be a digital trail connecting the dead man to Reinhardt? He was beginning to have his doubts. Maybe the risk wasn’t worth the money. At last, now stuck in traffic on the Autobahn, unable to drive as fast as he ordinarily did, Reinhardt have enough time?
If the customer took too long to die, Reinhardt could be late for dinner with his parents, who had recently expressed disapproval of his career choices and wanted to have a serious conversation with him.
They knew about his roles in the porn industry, and now believed that he earned a living modelling, which in fact, he did do on a strictly part-time basis. They could see his torso covered with form-fitting cycle outfits on billboards. He had been paid well for that, but he preferred fucking for money. His dad said modelling was a dead-end career; pretty muscle boys were a dime a dozen; his mother was disappointed that he hadn’t pursued his interest in science and become a nuclear physicist. Now 25, Reinhardt figured he had maybe 30 or 35 years of sweet and profitable fucking ahead of him, at which point he could retire to a Greek island and live off his investments. Maybe do some online work, become an Influencer, or keep a restricted clientele for his special breathing exercises, when his age wouldn’t really be a factor. These possibilities excited him more than posing in spandex or splitting atoms.
He didn’t want to be late for dinner at the Thai restaurant. His mother loved Thai food and the waiters were so beautiful, male and female. Reinhardt had been there before and got a boner while being served by an elegant, black-haired girl in her silky chut thai outfit and who had touched the back of his hand, as if unintentionally. She spoke German with a heavily-accented, musical voice. He would have loved to strip that silk off her small body, delicate as a doll, and drive his huge cock deep into her tight Fohtze.
But traffic had stalled; his unhappy Porsche chugged rather than raced; time didn’t stop because he had to slow down to a fucking snail’s pace. From the car, he phoned his client and explained that he was caught in a traffic jam on the Autobahn. The man sounded strange, then went silent, giving Reinhardt time to consider that the police would surely check the man’s phone, if any suspicions rose about the manner of his death, unless he was using a disposable burner. If he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reinhardt’s schedule would collapse, all his timing for the day thrown out. The man’s voice erupted:
“Forget it. It was a mistake. I don’t want to die today. Don’t go. I’m not there. And don’t call this number again.”
Reinhardt never argued with a client, unless it was over money owing. Having received a hundred euros in advance, deposited directly in his special account, he had lost nothing except time. Feeling relieved in any case, he crawled his car to the nearest exit and managed to get off the lane to Dresden, and drove on the road back to Berlin. He regretted not being able to fuck the client to death: €10,000, after all. It would have been a new experience. His cock hardened at the very idea of it. Still, it was better that he hadn’t. Looking at his watch, he could go home, change his clothes, and still make it to the restaurant in time. When the pretty and petite server appeared in her red and gold chut tai to take their order, he’d flirt with her. She’d like that. He planned to speak to her privately once his parents left. They would meet under the Urania World Clock in the plaza after her shift. Soon, his superior cock would take its own sweet time fucking that sweet girl to death in his bed. For free.
Horror Sleaze Trash 