Death on the Rhine Ch. 03

At the buffet breakfast the next morning in the Ambrosia Restaurant, Tiho was moving around a bit more gingerly and with a little less of the playful buoyancy and bounce that he had the night before, but he was still making an effort to play the role of everyone’s favorite leprechaun. No doubt this was a studied role that won him extra tips at the end of the voyage; it certainly would make him a favorite of those seeking a young-looking, yet legally aged, partner to dominate on this cruise.

Bruno Meister wasn’t in the restaurant, and Folsom had gone to great pains to determine that this was so. This wasn’t really a surprise. The breakfast buffet was the one meal on the ship that was spread over several hours. And by the time Folsom had recovered from his own plowing the evening before and had come up for his meal, he could see that several of the other passengers had already eaten and had disembarked to explore the small wine village of Rudesheim. The MS River God had tied up very close to the town center.

The Italian count strutted in, master of the room, his blond porn star in tow, as Folsom was drinking his last cup of coffee. They were seated before the count saw Folsom, but he did see him as Folsom got up to leave and motioned the American detective to join the blond and him at their table. Folsom didn’t have time for this, though; he was hell bent on finding Meister and dispatching him as soon as possible. He didn’t want to offend the Italian, however, so he went over to their table, told them that he had something he had to do but maybe he’d see them later, and bent down and gave the count a nice kiss on the lips—just to register that his retreat wasn’t an matter of disinterest.

Then he went looking for Meister. He found him, decked out in gym shorts and a T, sitting at the bar in the Alexander Lounge, deep in conversation with one of the masked bartenders. Folsom couldn’t tell if it was the same one who had so roughly and effectively fucked him the previous evening, but he was the only one of the three in the lounge at the time. Folsom walked on by, not wanting to show that he had any interest in what Meister was doing or to connect himself in any way to Meister. He stood at the window for a bit, feigning interest in what was going on out on the riverside market street beyond the boat dock. But all the time he was fingering the blade in his pocket, pumping himself up for the justice he was about to dispense.

When Folsom turned, he saw that the bartender was gone. And then Meister got off the stool as well and headed toward the foyer. Folsom waited until the German gangster was out of the lounge door and then quickly moved there himself to see where the German was headed. He took the stairs down to the B deck below and then turned right to descend to the C deck that ran part of the way under the Alexander Lounge. Folsom followed Meister at a discrete distance.

Having reached the C deck corridor of cabins, Meister moved to the very end of the corridor. The door at the end entered one of the crew areas, but Meister didn’t go there; he turned and entered the last door on the right at the end of the corridor. Folsom knew this to be the ship’s small exercise room, an exercise room for brochure purposes only, as there was only room for a couple of tread mills, a rack of weights, and a bench that could have been used for bench pressing if there had been room to move the weights around in—which there wasn’t. Folsom doubted that Meister could make any use of the room for exercise, but then he wasn’t thinking clearly on the type of exercise Meister liked to do.

Folsom waited for a few minutes to enable Meister to get into an exercise routine and to be less likely to be prepared to react quickly. The detective reasoned he could be in and out in less than a minute, doing what he needed to do and being long gone before Meister’s body was found.

As he drew nearer to the door into the exercise room, though, Folsom could hear low moaning. The door was slightly ajar and Folsom only needed to nudge it a bit to be able to see the weight bench. All Folsom could see initially, however, was the back of one of the bartenders, sans his Roman soldier-style skirt. Folsom’s eyes went to the carpet next to the machine and he saw the rectangular wooden box and the surgical items inside. Sounding wands. The bartender then moved to the side enough that Folsom could see the naked body of Bruno Meister reclining on the bench, with his wrists tied off on the handle bars of the treadmill machines on either side of the bench. His eyes were closed, and his head was lolling back in his own world of ecstasy.

Meister was a large, barrel-chested man, but he was more a mass of compact muscle than fat. He was quite hairy all over and his cock was plump—very thick in erection, although not particularly long. Now it had the end of a tube protruding out of its piss slit, a tube that was being twirled gently and inserted slowly by the bartender.

Having heard a slight sound or sensing, perhaps, that they were being watched, the blond hunk turned toward the door. He didn’t see Folsom, but Folsom couldn’t quite see what he needed to see—he couldn’t tell if there was a scorpion tattooed on the man’s groin close to the root of his cock. Unless all three of the bartenders were similarly tattooed, if the scorpion was there Folsom would know that this was the guy who had put it in him the previous night. If he was into this sort of kinky sex, Folsom might need to avoid a rematch with him.

Folsom pulled away from the door and quietly moved down the corridor. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else; he only wanted to make Meister pay for his crime. He’d have to wait for another opportunity to do so.

Folsom retreated to the Alexander Lounge with a paperback novel and staked out an observation post for the return of the bartender and/or Meister. The other two bartenders were in service in the lounge when Folsom returned to it, but for the rest of the morning there was no sign of either Meister or the third bartender.

Folsom had barely begun to eat his lunch in the restaurant, only half full now, presumably because many of the passengers were exploring Rudesheim, when he saw Meister disembark and walk off into the town on a steep hillside cobblestoned street. The detective rushed to follow him, but when he reached the street running across the edge of the river, he couldn’t even be sure which of three streets whose mouths came down to the river in close proximity was the one Meister had taken. Taking a stab at a choice, Folsom started up a street that the village map he’d taken from a stack on the reception desk told him led up to one of the wineries the ship’s passengers had been told would be open for their inspection and tasting.

Near the top of the street, just opposite the entrance into the winery, Folsom caught sight of Meister sitting in an open street café. Another man was sitting with them, and they were having an extremely animated conversation; it almost looked like they were arguing. Folsom retreated to the shadows near the entrance to the winery and observed the two men. With a creepy sense of confusion and surprise, Folsom came to realize that he knew the other man. It was a German senior police detective by the name of Sigmund Frist. Folsom had met him at an international police convention before Brad Roberts had become his partner and Folsom and Frist had even had a short fling in bed. Folsom remembered that Frist was very good in bed.

But what was he doing in Rudesheim, and more important, what was he doing talking with Meister. Could it be that Meister was going to be arrested before Folsom could get to him? This wouldn’t be fair.

Meister flounced up from the table, as did Frist, and Meister started walking briskly down the street, with Frist closely following him and throwing angry words at his back. To escape notice, Folsom entered the winery, only to find himself face to face with the Italian count and his porn star tagalong.

“Oh, there you are, you lovely boy,” the Italian count said with a big grin on his face. “We have just received permission to take some wine, cheese, and bread out into the vineyard. Would you care to join Lance and me for a lovely afternoon in the vineyard?”

Folsom saw no reason to refuse—certainly not as long as Frist was anywhere near Meister.

The count and the porn star gleefully danced out into the vineyard, the luxuriant vines heavy with grapes, and found a good vantage point to plop down where they could see the river and village below but could not easily be seen from those two perspectives. By the time Folsom caught up with them, they essentially were naked and were devouring cheese and wine like there was no tomorrow.

The two pulled Folsom down onto the spread blanket between them and undressed him while plying him with wine. The three were drinking out of shared bottles, and it didn’t take Folsom long to suspend his concern about Meister and surrender to their sensuous attention.

In a purely wanton act, the Italian poured wine down the front of Folsom’s naked torso, and the blond porn star licked it off with his tongue. The count was kissing Folsom deeply on the lips when the porn star started giving attention to his cock and balls and asshole. Soon all three were writhing around on the ground, making three-way love. The Italian was lithe and willowy and his patrician nature shown through. He wasn’t young, but he’d taken extremely good care of himself, and the attention he showed to Folsom proved that he was highly trained and skilled in the art of making love. His cock was long but slender. The porn star was perfectly muscled in keeping with his trade, but his cock, although of respectable length, was more slender than Folsom would have guessed would be ideal for movies.

It was while contemplating this and being maneuvered in a sandwiched position between the other two, who had gone into a yoga-style seated position with their legs folded over each other’s and sitting closely together, that it hit Folsom that he remembered what the porn star’s movie specialty was. He was known for those rare depictions of double penetration. That’s why his slender cock wasn’t considered a debit.

But by the time the American detective realized what he was being maneuvered into, the two had a half-drunk Folsom between them, facing the Italian, and the Italian had a hand wrapped around his own cock docked with that of the porn star, and the porn star was pulling Folsom’s hips down between them and spreading his butt cheeks with strong hands. Before it happened, Folsom realized that he was going to be double penetrated by those docked cocks, but he so sought the death of orgasm that double death seemed worth the try. thus, with much groaning and moaning and crying out of being filled to the limit, he just descended on the doubled poles and lost himself in the counterthrusting and four-handed body massaging of his exuberant companions.

It was a whole new and incredible sensation for Folsom, and his companions were also quickly lost in the feel of cock rubbing on cock and counterpistoning inside the undulating walls of an ass channel. they were all moaning and groaning and crying out in wine-enabled ecstasy, lost in the most intimate of threesomes, each straining to hold his ejaculation in check for as long as possible and reveling in a three-way fuck that they wanted to go on forever. The Italian and porn star came almost simultaneously inside Folsom, and then the porn star inclined his shoulders back to the ground and pulled Folsom’s torso with him while the Italian slid his prick out of Folsom and expertly sucked him off, giving him the coup de grace in a trio of sighs and moans. It was a good death for Folsom and a pleasant afternoon in a sea of frustration and anger.

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