In this steamy novella of nonstop fetish gay male sex, the plans and needs of charismatic and dominating Austrian munitions manufacturer, Baron Josef von Holst, in the 1920s lead to the subjugation to his purposes at a Venice resort beach hotel of Lady Elizabeth Winslow and her son, Paul. Von Holst’s first-time taking of Paul Winslow leads the young man down an ever-more intense road of male, no-sex-act taboo, escort service prostitution until, in the war-torn Europe of 1941, Paul becomes determined to save his mother from the clutches of the baron and the increasingly sinister and intolerant German war machine.
The baron met them at the door of the chalet, all smiles and charm. No one would have known that he had attacked this woman like an animal in heat in the gazebo of a Venice beach resort hotel and yet that she had come to him when he called. And had brought her handsome son.
In the background as they moved into the chalet’s foyer, Elizabeth and Paul could see another familiar figure—someone they had agreed reminded them of the Grim Reaper, Giuseppe, the bishop of Milan, swathed in his black cassock.
“You remember the bishop of Milan, I assume,” the baron said. “We all met in Venice last August.”
“Of course, how are you, Your Grace?”
“Quite fine, thank you.” The bishop was answering Elizabeth’s question, but his eyes were on her handsome son, with his perfect body, blond curls, and lowered eyes of the long lashes. “Just perfect,” he said, as the baron was saying that they were just in time for supper to be served and that they could take drinks in the lounge in front of the fireplace later.
* * * *
The bishop, sitting beside Paul in front of the fire in the lounge, had been whispering to the young man in French as Paul’s mother and the baron had been carrying on a more vocal conversation—in British English, despite neither being British—in chairs facing the fire at an angle.
“It’s late and the trip today was tiring,” Lady Elizabeth said, as she rose from her chair. “I think it’s time that I turned in.” No one argued the point with her. She gave Josef a meaningful look, smoothed down the silken flanks of her dress, and rustled out of the room, down the corridor to the bedrooms.
The bishop put an arm around Paul’s back, the long, black-painted nails of his long, slender fingers accentuated on the stark white of Paul’s billowy broadcloth shirt at the shoulder, and pulled Paul’s body ever so slightly into his body. There was little reaction from Paul. Throughout the conversation, he’d been looking demurely down at the hands folded in his lap and had answered Giuseppe’s lengthy whispers in short, murmured answers. The bishop brought his lips closer to Paul’s ear and urgently whispered something. Paul shrugged slightly, but he turned his face to the bishop’s to accept Giuseppe’s possession of his mouth. The long, black-nailed fingers of the bishop’s free hand started working the buttons on Paul’s shirt.
