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Robert Bringston was born in in a small town near Heidelberg. His forefathers came from England, which is how he became fascinated with English history, the basis of many of his erotic stories. Today, Bringston lives on an old farm in the Teutoburg Forest and devotes his time to writing.

A ll wrapped up warm and cozy in my bathrobe, Brian led me back to the neighboring room. The hearth crackled, spreading comfortable warmth throughout the room, the last rays of sun glowed on the wall like pale red fire. As promised, James had set up the meal. A silver candelabra with five long candles stood on a small table by the window.

The bread was still warm, giving off a wonderful seductive odor. Beneath a large silver platter, juicy pork roasts were steaming, and some crispy chicken drumsticks. My mouth began to water. The wine glasses had already been filled. Brian held his glass up to me.

Lovingly, he looked into my eyes. We drank the glasses empty in one swallow. Brian came over to me and pressed his moist lips to my mouth. I pulled him tightly close to me, dizzy at our profound connection. For this brief moment, the world around me seemed to sink into peace and calm.

Tell me a bit about yourself. Where do you come from?

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Where do you live? With your uncle, you said? He took me in back then after my parents were killed in the huge city fire in Plymouth. You must remember, a whole district of the city was turned to ash. The flames went straight up to the heavens. I was with a friend when I saw smoke and heard the pandemonium in the streets.

When I reached our house it was already ablaze. It was one of the first to collapse … I was only twelve at the time, suddenly alone, without a family. Uncle Walter had only been back in the city for a year then. My mother had only mentioned a little about him beforehand.

He was always the black sheep of the family, a good-for-nothing, as my father put it. For years, he had disappeared. No one knew where he had gone.