Joel has gotten around to describing his session at the Fickstutenmarkt in Leipzig. From his description it was a smaller party that the ones I’ve attended in Berlin, but no less fun. I hope you enjoy his write up and I know he would really appreciate it if you comment on it.
It has taken a few weeks to process what happened to me at Fickstutenmarkt on October 7.
It was unquestionably the highlight of my very full sex life up until this point.
Revisiting it is something that elicits a broad spectrum of emotions: exhilaration, trepidation, desire and even jealousy.
Let’s start from the beginning:
I got into Leipzig three or four hours before the beginning of the Fair. Leipzig is not a big city, nor is there a great deal to see and do. It is very picturesque, though, and I enjoyed strolling through the cobble stoned marketplaces with gorgeous old buildings lining the streets.
Naturally, I had to go past the venue to see where later I would be offering up my hole to any stallion that desired it. Cocks Bar is a cruising complex about the size of Melbourne’s Porter St sauna (that reference won’t help many, I’m sure.) It’s tucked away behind a supermarket called Norma’s and I can honestly say that I will never be able to look a woman with that name in the face again.
It was now that my heart began to race. The thing that started to arouse me at this point was the knowledge that any man or boy I passed on the street might well be in attendance that evening. I gazed at beautiful young professionals, big slobbering old men, husbands holding their wives’ hands and barely legal teens, wondering whether I’d be lucky enough to be on their receiving end in a few short hours.
Of course, I was not assured of getting any action at all, and that made me almost sick with worry. I had been thinking about this night for weeks now, and I was terrified that the stallions would come and go without me being so much as touched.
But if I was fortunate enough to be fucked (and fucked and fucked and fucked), my concern at this point was that I could not find amyl for purchase throughout Germany. Apparently, its illegal to sell, so German users have to import it from the UK! I’m an amyl addict, and the thought of trying to take some slab of aggressive man meat without its loosening effect was nerve-wracking.
I returned to my hostel and tried to take a nap to make sure I had the most energy possible but my flighty heartbeat refused to let me rest. Eventually, I figured I should start getting ready so headed for the showers to clean myself up. To those of you who will one day go to FSM, get a hotel room. It will make your pre-fuck routine a bit more comfortable. I had to shower and douche in a communal ensuite and although I think the dorm room was empty at the time, it was difficult to really relax. Sadly, my long-term traveller’s budget didn’t extend to my own room.
Getting dressed, I put on a pair of knee-high, black and white socks I’d bought from a Berlin sex shop the week before, the brand “Barcode Berlin” emblazoned across the toe. Over them, I tied my green Chuck Taylors. The look was skater, which is not particularly me, but a) I think it’s fucking hot, and b) the green Converses were far more appropriate footwear than the other boots and dress shoes I’m carrying around Europe.
Then I went to the venue. Because I’d been on a bus journey earlier that day, because of my nerves and the desire for my arse to be squeaky clean, I hadn’t eaten at all. I decided I’d need some sustenance if I was going the distance, so I nabbed a banana and a miniature can of coke from Norma’s (where else!) and hovered out the front trying to ascertain if anyone else was preparing to enter Cocks Bar. One guy sat on a retainer wall in the driveway, and I figured he might be a fellow bottom.
I took a deep breath and made the walk to the door. Once I reached the top level, a man was positioned in a small alcove taking money and giving you a numbered bracelet. There was almost no English among the attendants at this fair, and so he passed me a sheet of rules in my mother tongue. I, of course, had read these rules (hell, I’d jacked off over them!) so quickly passed them back to him. Then, a stablehand was waved down and asked to take me to the changing room.
The changing room was nothing more than the complex’s porn lounge, with fluorescent lights turned on and a collection of staff mulling about and giving you the once-over with their eyes. They passed me a garbage bag to store my clothing in, and when I handed it back to them, they wrote a number on my right shoulderblade: 68. I was incredibly jealous of whoever was the next to get tagged!
I was also handed a hood, but it wasn’t placed over my head yet. Instead, mares were left to wonder the maze until just before the stallions’ arrival. It was only via chatting with a guy from Mannheim that he explained that people were using this time to reserve a place that would house them for the duration of the night’s activities. I found an empty cubicle without a door near the start of the maze. The cubicles to my left and right contained a practically perfect early-20s tattoo punk and an Asian muscleboy respectively. I thought their beauty might distract the tops from my average, pale offering, but I also knew that if I wasn’t going to get banged, I wanted to at least hear people who were.
Believe it or not, the horniest part of the night came before the stallions arrived. I went to the bar and got myself a couple of drinks in quick succession – if I didn’t have amyl, I needed something else to get me loose. Fortunately, the cute bartender poured me some very generous bourbon and Cokes, which nearly immediately started to have an effect on me considering how little I’d eaten that day. We chatted momentarily before the hot bartender, short but with a beautiful body, pierced eyebrow and shaved head, said that if we weren’t both bottom, he’d be into me. Flirtatiously, I said, “I’m versatile,” to which his response was, “Follow me to the toilet.” I couldn’t believe it; this really was a sexually charged place! I followed, and he closed to door of a cubicle behind me, dropping to his knees straight away and wrapping his mouth around my already hardening cock.
He was a voracious sucker, a voracious fingerer, and it wouldn’t have been five minutes before I realized that if he didn’t stop soon, I was going to cum and that would make the night ahead a lot more difficult. So I gently guided his mouth off my cock. He laughed, and thanked me, and said he better get back to the bar. I was at the bar again a few minutes later for one final drink and once I’d downed that, the whole process repeated, him demanding I follow him, him going down on me with the kind of abandon you want every sucker to have. This time, when I felt myself getting close, I dropped to my knees and took his hard dick with my lips.
Soon, though, he said, “The party is starting,” and he hurried me out. When I got back to my cubicle, the mares around me had already been hooded, and a staff member tutted at me as he tied mine up. “Tsk, tsk, English,” he scolded. That’s how the staff referred to me for the rest of the night: “English”. He left and I got down on all fours, pushed the contents of a lube sachet into my quite tight arse, and waited.
It mustn’t have been five minutes before the ominous sound of footsteps started to approach. One set, two set, then more. Quite a few stallions had arrived at the same time. I will quite simply never forget the first hand to brush – and then linger – over my puckering hole. It filled me with electricity. I must’ve been touched up like this hundreds of times before, but not knowing whom it was sent me into another world of exhilaration.
A moment later, I heard the tattoo boy next to me cry out. He’d been penetrated.
I was jealous. I wanted me to be fucked, not him.
And then it happened. And it happened so quickly. There was no foreplay. No niceties. No eyeing each other up and down. I felt a rough hand on my arse, a workman’s hand. I felt him pushing me forward until my head was touching the end of the cubicle. Then I felt every piece of his cock get pressed into me. It must’ve been about 7”, but only average girth. The drinks must’ve been working because I didn’t feel much discomfort, just joy: I was here, in Leipzig, at FSM, and I was being fucked.
That same emotion would play out again and again for the first five times I was fucked that night. I was so ecstatic to have been chosen and from the sounds of it (or the sneaky peeks I took from under my loosening hood) everyone in my vicinity was also being covered on a frequent basis. I guess it’s not so much about the look of the mare that turns a stallion on, its simply being able to have him for as long as you wanted.
Speaking of “long”, lets talk penis size. My experience in Germany up until this point was that men were fucking hung. In Cologne, for instance, I’d seen an older guy at a sauna who could only be described as Mr Ed. (Although he wasn’t my type, I had a play with him in the sauna to get up close and personal to the beast, and when I said, “You have the biggest cock I’ve ever seen,” he closed his eyes and nodded in a way that said, “I know. I’ve heard it a million times.”) Oddly enough, the stallions that chose me didn’t have jaw-breaking cocks. In fact, the first was probably the biggest. At one point, I was actually fucked by the smallest dick I’ve ever had, a quintessential chode, as long as it was wide. They were all shapes and sizes, just like their owners, and I could deny none of them, so I just knelt forward and accepted my fate.
At one point, I felt a hand on my cock while standing in the doorway of my cubicle. I felt my way up a tight little body to a face that was… covered by a hood!
Another mare was jerking me off and I think it was Asian muscleboy. I thought, “Fuck it.” I grabbed a condom from a velcro pouch that had been available at the bar, slid it on clumsily in the dark, bent the boy over and fucked him. I expected him to complain because the risk of getting caught and evicted (one of the rules if two mares hook up) was high, but I had learnt by now that you could see the torchlight of the stablehands coming a long way off, so I planned to pull out if I saw them coming. Fortunately, they didn’t appear for at least five minutes, I pounded this little lump of Mandarin muscle until I’d had enough and felt my way back to my fuckcave.
After I’d taken five cocks, I began to tire somewhat. An attendant led me to the toilet, stood by and watched me piss before leading me back to a different spot and tightening my hood. This gave me a new lease of energy and I continued to take another three dicks that night. My favourite fuck came from a barrel chested bloke with shoulder length hair dripping in sweat. I knew all these details from being brought to stand up on my knees, by back pressed against his wet chest. He brutalized my hole for about ten minutes.
While that doesn’t sound much, it was quite long for FSM, I think. For a stallion, I guess it’s like a smorgasbord. There’s so much on offer, than you can’t afford to gorge on any one item, otherwise you’ll have no room for the next course. Most sessions lasted between 3 and 5 minutes, I reckon.
But timing is difficult to judge, because when the staff started informing the mares that the Fair was ending, I would’ve guessed only an hour had passed. Instead, two and half hours had gone, and even most of the mares had voluntarily checked out. I’d lasted the distance.
I took off my hood when they called, “Done, English,” and I found my way to the makeshift changeroom. I reckon there was only eight of us left, whereas there had probably been about 25 at the peak of the party. I quickly got dressed and paid for my drinks at a table in the changeroom. Here, the twink taking cash saw my number and said, “The bartender said to say goodbye.”
Heading out into the night with that last line ringing in my head, I couldn’t quite believe what had just happened to me. I actually wrapped my scarf around my mouth and laughed into it on the walk back to my accommodation. I was on a weird high from sex and sweat and booze and hunger and being completely and utterly sexually satisfied, perhaps for the first time in my life. I mean, I had been fucked before – a lot! But this was the first time I felt I’d been FUCKEDDDDDDDD.
Then it dawned on me, a thought both wonderful and worrying: Sex may never be the same again. Aside from the satisfaction wrought by “love-making” (hate that word!) or perhaps gangbangs, I don’t know if I’ll be able to feel what I just felt again.
Well, until my next horse fair, anyway. I will definitely be back. And I hope this account inspires some of you to join me.
Joel is currently living in London – so if you want to tap the ass shown above, then get in touch via his Recon profile – StickItToMe – just make sure you send me an email after you plough his ass to let me know how he was. 😉