Fangs at Fasching

When Terry announced they were expected in the lounge, Madeleine didn't respond—she just lay there, half conscious, a dreamy look on her face. The other woman, though, sat up in bed, cupped her voluptuous breasts, and gave a saucy look at Terry. She languidly stood from the bed and was shrugging into her dress as the young viscount continued down the hall.

The next bedroom door he opened revealed the naked backside of a man in his fifties of military bearing, bald, and chunky but muscular, standing at the foot of the bed and holding the maid, Katie, naked and trussed up, to the mattress. He'd tied her wrists to her ankles with rope and had pillows under her belly, bringing her rump to the edge of the foot of the bed. He was leaning over her, one beefy hand pressing her cheek to the bed with a grip on the back of her neck. Her pelvis was raised to give Terry a good view of what the soldier type with a ramrod straight back was doing to her. The man had a thumb in her ass, his other fingers splayed over the small of her back, and he was fucking her in the ass, pressing in under the stretch of his thumb, with a thick-rooted cock.

The maid was gazing out at the wall by the bed with a wide-eyed stare. She was looking stoic, though, taking the ass fucking in silence like it was just one of her duties at the villa. And perhaps it was. The baron ran a household that was more bordello than residence. That was a major reason that Terry visited him regularly. Terry didn't announce what the two were supposed to interrupt that to do. He just quietly shut the door and moved on down the corridor. From the vigor with which the old man was fucking the girl's ass, though, Terry thought they probably were close to climax. He'd stop back a little later to announce drinks time.

He reviewed the position the old man was taking on the maid in his mind. He didn't think he'd ever been put in a position like that. He thought he might like to try it—maybe even with the man fucking the maid, if he was bisexual. Terry didn't mind who else a vigorous, inventive, commanding man fucked as long as he fucked Terry.

His last stop didn't surprise him at all. His chauffeur, Jimmy Chin, had already gotten busy with his own pleasures. Terry peeked into the dressing room off his bedroom to find that Jimmy was sitting, naked, on the side of the divan and a young man, in his mid-twenties, auburn haired, small, cute, with effeminate movements, was sitting in Jimmy's lap, also naked, facing him, and Jimmy, grasping the young man's waist between strong, bronze hands, was lifting and lowering the young man on his cock. Terry well knew that his chauffeur had a champion-length shaft, so he wasn't surprised at the groaning and moaning the young man did. He was taking the shaft deep.

He looked up to see that the opera baritone, Madeleine's fiancé, Drago Corvius, was standing across the dressing room, in the doorway of the bathroom, and watching the fuck on the divan. He had his fly open and is erection in hand. As closely as he was watching the young man rising and falling on Chin's cock, it was obvious that Corvius wanted to fuck the young man himself.

That answered the question of how broad the baritone's sexual interests were.

He looked at Terry and Terry looked at him. Neither withdrew for the next moment or two as the bouncing motion on the divan increased in intensity, the young man leaned back, grasping Chin's knees, and panted hard, rising up into the clouds of ecstasy.

Terry turned and walked into his bedroom, he moved to the foot of the bed and stood there. Corvius walked through the dressing room and into the bedroom, pulling up behind Terry. He placed his hands on Terry's hips and leaned into him.

"I've heard about you," he said. "A male nympho, I'm told. Can't get enough, and well worth the ride."

"That's what you've heard?" Terry asked, not pulling away. "Do it."

Corvius laughed. "I didn't know you would be this easy."

"Fuck me. I need a cock."

The opera singer reached around and fondled Terry through the material of the crotch of his jodhpurs. What he found only egged the dominating opera singer on.

"Lean over on the bed and extend your arms." It was the same position Terry had seen the middle-aged man in just now with the housekeeper dominating him. The baron hadn't completed Terry. They had been interrupted by finding the valet dead in the stable hayloft. Terry bent over the bed and extended his arms to the side. Corvius reached around and unbuttoned the waistband and the fly of Terry's jodhpurs. Those, and his undergarments were pulled down and off his legs. Corvius went down on his knees behind Terry, his mouth going to Terry's hole, one hand palming the young viscount's belly to hold him in place, and the other milking the young man's cock.

Terry moaned appreciatively at the attention.

After a few minutes, the tall, muscular man rose over Terry from behind and on top. He put his erection in position; mounted the young, moaning viscount; penetrated; and quickly and efficiently fucked Winter to a mutual ejaculation. It was all over in a few minutes. Terry was still lying there, in that position, on his belly on the bed, feet on the floor, when Corvius was gone and the young man Chin had fucked had scurried behind him as well.

When Chin entered the room, he helped Terry up and dressed in afternoon clothes. "Are you all right, My Lord? Your tensions assuaged? You don't need my cock?" He was standing behind Terry and reached around and palmed the young man's lower belly, ready to be of service as Terry required.

"Yes, Jimmy, thanks. No need for you at the moment. I've been satisfied for now. We're supposed to all be gathering in the lounge," Terry continued. "You need to go down with me."

"What has happened?" Chin asked. He wasn't asked about the circumstances of Corvius having fucked Terry—there was nothing new or unusual about that scenario. Terry let—no, begged—any half-decent and well-hung man to fuck him. But the Chinese-Russian chauffeur recognized how unusual it was that he be asked to be in attendance in the entertainment rooms.

"There's been a death," Terry said. He kept nothing away from Chin.

"Of course there has," Chin said, with a sigh.

"A murder."

"Of course. But no, don't put that collar on yet, My Lord. You are bleeding at the throat. I'll have to do something to stop the bleeding."

"Well, fuck," Terry said. "That bastard. He bit me while he fucked me."

"Yes, it seems so, Sir. That's a most peculiar bite mark, sir, if I say so. Somewhat like in Montevideo."

Chin had saved Winter in the nick of time in Montevideo. "Where did the baron say Corvius was from—and what sort of name is Drago?"

"Romanian, I believe, My Lord. And I think 'Drago' is a form of 'Count.'"

"Isn't Transylvania in Romania?" Terry asked.

"Yes, My Lord, I believe it is. There the bleeding has stopped."

"Good. We'll say nothing more of this for the moment. But we'll need to be observant. These matters can easily get out of hand."

"I understand, sir. I'll put a plaster on it and, with the collar over that, no one will notice. Then we best being going downstairs as requested. Was it a gruesome murder, Sir?"

"He was bound, whipped, and, I think fucked. And I think the body had been almost completely drained of blood."

"Had it, Sir? Nothing new for us, though, I think."

"Yes, but still very unusual. A bit disturbing—and a delicate matter." His thoughts went to remembering the view of the siren suckling at Madeleine's throat, and he wondered if Corvius suckled there too. Madeleine was very much paler than she'd been when Terry last saw her—and so docile. Terry remembered her as being fiery. He had liked her that way. Not that he'd ever had any desire to fuck her.

* * * *

Jimmy and Terry Winter weren't the last ones to get down to the lounge. Drago Corvius came in soon after Terry and his chauffeur, his arm around a still-groggy Madeleine. He had the effrontery to smile at Terry, while brazenly cooing to Madeleine. Next was the older military-bearing man who had been fucking the maid, Katie. The baron introduced him to Terry as another baron, with the military bearing being explained as him being retired German general Baron Otto Merkel, who now was an arms industrialist and a backer of the brown shirt movement. He also dabbled in the stage arts, and Baron Luderman was cajoling him to be a financial backer for the ballet-opera Luderman was trying to put together. That no doubt was why Merkel was feeling he had a free pass to spike the house staff. Terry had already determined that if the man was bi, he certainly could discipline Terry if he wanted to. He showed every indication that he would be militant and cruel. Although Terry would never willingly join the military, he would have no trouble serving under a military man.

A Spanish couple showed up next. The wife was introduced to Terry as an opera contralto, Maria Alonso, who Luderman wished to sing in his opera. She was pushing fifty and was a small, flighty woman but with a rich commanding voice. She was as pale as Madeleine was and seemed to be walking in a fog. She could probably be made to look a lot younger on stage, but not young. She was always turning her profile to what she continued her best side, and as the evening wore on and she slipped in and out of focused attention, she had little to say unless she was ticked off and then she was explosive—very Spanish.

Her husband, Rodrigo's, claim to relevance here was that he was his wife's manager. He was of undetermined age, but he looked to be in his low thirties, and thus Maria's boy toy when they had first met and married. He was foxy, always with a piercing look and a bit of a sneer. Terry, of course, checked him out immediately as a possible sex partner and found him to be trim, with almost a gaunt body, but he wore tight pants, and Terry determined he dressed right and was admirably long. Yes, Terry would lie down for him if there was no better prospect on the offing.

When their eyes met, a recognition passed between them, and Terry knew that the man would bed him, given the opportunity.

The voluptuous woman who had been sucking on Madeleine's throat and fingering her cunt was the last of the guests to appear. Now that he could see her well, Terry recognized her as a notorious lesbian who wrote erotic novels. She was a claimed Polish countess, Caroline Radiswal, and her age was anywhere in the forties range, although it seemed like her novels had been in the marketplace for a century or more. Perhaps she'd taken over some older writer's franchise and name. She was sultry, voluptuous, dark, mysterious, sarcastic, and quick with the stinging quip. After she'd been introduced, had given Terry a condescending sneer, and wafted on the drinks cart, Baron Luderman confided to Terry that he was trying to get her to write the storyline for his ballet-opera, "Laugh at Death."

"What is this unspoken threat from the external world to those attending your masked ball in your opera?" Terry asked. "Is the ball beset with vampires or something as nefarious and shocking? Is that what you wish to convey about this Hitler fellow and his brown shirts—that they are vampires setting upon us all to suck us dry of moral integrity."

"Shh, it's not safe, even here, to speak such of the brown shirts," the baron hissed. He nodded toward Otto Merkel as a likely threat in this vein. "And why do you ask about vampires?"

"Radiswal writes books about vampires and the theme seems to fit your production." That wasn't the only reference he was making to the woman novelist, though. "You don't believe in vampires?"

"No, of course not. Do you, Terry?"

"Sometimes I almost do, yes. There have been times and places . . . a word to the wise. Does your bedroom have a dressing room with a divan, like mine does?"

"My bedroom is a two-room bedroom suite. My wife and I shared a suite but we had separate bedrooms. Why do you ask?"

"Tonight, and until you become comfortable with whatever arrangement there is with your daughter, I suggest you have her sleep under your supervision and without informing any of the other guests that she is there."

"She sleeps with Drago Corvius. You aren't saying you've already made a determination on his suitability for her, are you?"

Terry just grinned at him.

The baron snorted. "You aren't saying he's already laid you and you think he's just a gay gold digger?"

"He's at least bisexual, yes. And I think he wants to be the lead male singer in your opera—very much. That may be the gold he's after. I also think your daughter is looking entirely too pale." Winter wouldn't go further on his suspicions along those lines until the baron had a chance to acquire some belief and understanding.

Other guests had already been in the lounge when Terry and Jimmy arrived. The middle-aged man the housekeeper had been dominating in a bedroom upstairs turned out to be a stage set designer, Charles Frankel, a quiet, mousy American Jew in his forties, who looked perpetually embarrassed—beyond realizing what Terry had seen him in a compromised position upstairs. He was drinking a lot and seemingly was on the edge of drunkenness. Art was his escape, though. Rather than socializing with others in the lounge, he clung to a sketch pad, sketching other guests as they really were in his perceptive observation. Terry was both amused and surprised when he got a look at the pad to see that the man was sketching the other guests, rendering them as animals who were both clearly identifiable as them and as quite accurate about their basic nature. He had drawn Frau Vetterman, his dominatrix, as an allegator. Frankel was too mousy for Terry to develop any sexual interest in. He was just another submissive—and not a particularly interesting one.

The young man Jimmy had been fucking on the divan in Terry's dressing room was also there, standing by the piano, looking through some sheet music. The baron introduced him as a twenty-six-year-old Italian opera tenor, Guido Salvitore. He was small, effeminate, and more pretty than handsome. "His voice is quite good," the baron said, as they approached him at the piano. "I want him for my opera."

"I think from the looks of him that you want him for your bed or bent over a sawhorse with you mounted on him," Terry said, having already discounted the young man as a determined submissive and therefore not a fit with Terry and of no further sexual interest personally.

"I already have him for my bed," the baron said, "and I've ridden him as a mare. I want him for the high tenor roles in the opera. I've told him you will accompany him. To keep these people in order, I've said that you will play and he will sing for our happy hour."

"I'd be happy to," Terry said, with a smile. He said a few words to a blushing Guido, who apparently didn't realize that Terry had seen him bottoming for Terry's chauffeur, and the guests settled and the two put on a show for much of the time before the police arrived. They stopped, though, when the baron came to Terry and said, "Everyone's accounted for except for one of the maids. And the staff is shorthanded with Andre dead and Mustafa sitting with the body. We could use Katie to help serve and the cook says she has to leave off service here now and go start preparing our dinner."

Indeed, when the cook left, only the other maid, Ingrid, and the butler, Joseph, remained to replenish drinks, serve canapes, and, at the baron's request, keep the guests from wanting to leave the lounge.

Frau Vetterman was, of course, of no help in the service. Her role was to stand stern guard to the doorway to the service wing and command and control.

"OK, I'll run her down," Winter said. "I'll take Jimmy with me, though." The baron's servants hadn't asked the exotic and, to them, strange and foreboding Asian man to help with the service, and Jimmy had not volunteered to do so. He covered several functions, but serving at table wasn't one of them.

Their search was extensive, but they finally found the maid, Katie. They found her in the attic, where the servant's rooms were, but in what appeared to be a box room, but one with a mattress on the floor. She was stretched out on it, looking quite content and peaceful, but very, very pale, in death. Terry only touched her enough to turn her head, her luxurious hair fanning out from her head like angel wings, to the side to see if there were bite marks on her throat.

There were.

As he and Jimmy were coming back downstairs, the police from Garmisch were, at last, arriving.

* * * *

"Should we cancel our masked party we were having tonight?" the baron was asking the arriving detective inspector, Friedrich Halterman, having come out of the lounge with Jozef, the butler, to answer the knocking at the door, as Terry Winter and his chauffeur descended the stairs.

"No, it would be best to keep everyone together as much as possible until we get to the bottom of this," the detective answered after introductions were made. "A distracting party, with them all together in one place, would be better than them scattered about in their rooms and planning unannounced departures. Now, as to the body of the victim. In the stables, I have heard."

A flurry of men had entered the building behind the detective. Most seemed to be forensic technicians. They were dressed in disposable uniforms. There also were two uniformed policemen, both brown shirters. These men were insidiously inserting themselves into positions of authority. The ranks of the police had already been taken over by them. Both were young men. One, introduced as Fritz, was the elder and obviously the more dominating of the two. He was muscular, in his late twenties. He came across as a militant brown shirter. Terry was immediately attracted to him, not only because of his fit, Nordic looks, but because he had a cruel, brutal, dominating aura about him. The initial look he had turned to Terry was the possessing one of men who topped other men. There also was distinct mounding at his crotch.

The other policeman, Hans, was younger than either Fritz or Terry, barely into his twenties. He was quiet and diffident, obviously in training from the manner in which he looked to Fritz for guidance on everything. Although he was cute, he seemed unsure of himself and thus Terry wasn't particularly interested in him sexually. If he went with men, it would be, like Terry, under the men. They would be of little use to each other. Terry, who had considerable experience in such things, instantly recognized that Fritz would go with a man or woman, as long as they gave him pleasure—and that pleasure for him would involve at least a little pain for his partner.

In contrast, the detective inspector was quite evidently Jewish and thus not connected in any way with the brown shirters. Hans gave him some respect, but he got nothing but sneers and sassiness from Fritz. Although senior and clearly the most intelligent policeman in the room and able to command, Friedrich Halterman, identified as forty-two on the warrant card he produced, was smart enough to pick his clashes with the brown shirters for when it really was needed.

Halterman was of great interest to Terry. He was move-star handsome, well built, showed promise in the crotch area, and had a commanding presence. His attention also went directly to Terry Winter as the young viscount descended the stairs to the foyer. Both men experienced a flash of electricity between them. Terry, at least, knew that if the opportunity arose, they would fuck. That is if the detective was game for it.

"Ah, you are Viscount Terrence Winter, are you not?" Halterman asked.

"Yes, how did you know?" Terry asked.

"The baron reported you as having found the body of the victim. And I know you by reputation. The Geneva police informed us you were headed in our direction when they called off their identification of you as a person of interest in a murder investigation. I've seen you in the papers. You seem to collect murder cases."