Dieter

Ready for your close up, Mister Hunter?

“He’s called Dieter. They want to take a photo. And Dieter is the photographer. German. Aren’t they always German, the really filthy cunts?

“I sit on a chair, slouched forward for your gaze. The lighting is shadow plus neon plus daylight. Can’t say it doesn’t work.

“Heavy leather jacket. Black boots up to my knees. Seem to have forgotten the rest. Master Kink. Daddy Delicious. They light a cigar and it trails its vile smoke around my face. I manage 90% of the fantasy, then. Daddy at barely 20. They say I look older and mean it as a compliment. Dieter drips oil onto my chest and this neon-daylight-shadow sheen arranges itself in soft drapes across me, glitters off my nipples and flows to the floor from the tip of my cock.

“And I see the images he’s taken.

“And it is fine. It is mighty fine. I’d fly in from London to watch me fuck, myself, if I wasn’t already here. It’s like that for the whole of the first day. I stand back and watch myself do these things, just as you are lining up to watch me, just as Amsterdam lined up to watch me.

“They watched me for a summer. On and off they’ve watched me ever since. Well, there was an opening. And I was the exact size and shape to fill it.”