Ancient Scandal

The poet, costumed as Pantalone, came off the platform as Cortesi guided me to him. He held out his two hands and took mine, as the count backed away a few steps.

"The count has been speaking to me of your needs and talents. Will you serve me as you have served him?" the poet asked, his voice a resonating, deep bass.

"Yes," I replied. I didn't contemplate any other choice. I was already lost to him.

"Even as I am under this mask?" he asked. I gasped as he released one of my hands and removed his Pantalone mask, with the exaggerated prominent, hooked, projecting nose. His actual features were the same, the prominent proboscis dominating his facial features. In spite of that he was a handsome man. And there was his muscular body, his commanding posture, and the bulge at his crotch shown by the tightness of the red body suit. He was in massive erection, his shaft straining at the material.

"Yes," I answered. I ached for him. I ached to have that huge erection inside me.

"I will use you totally," he said.

"Yes," I unhesitatingly answered. I half intuited what he meant by that. But I didn't care. I had already wondered if he was thick enough to split me. The response I saw in the other student's eyes he had just covered warned me that he might. I didn't care.

"Ich werde dich besitzen—I will own you," he said, reverting to his apparent native German in the intensity of the emotion.

"Ja—yes. Ich werde dein Sklave sein—I will be your slave."

"Knie zu mir—kneel to me," and when he was assured that I understood German, he added "Nimm mich in deinen Mund—take me inside your mouth," he commanded in his deep bass voice. He unbuttoned the codpiece of his body suit as I went down on my knees. Count Cortesi came up close behind me and took my cheeks in his hand, holding me in place as I opened my mouth to the poet's extraordinarily thick and long cock. The count had his hard shaft exposed as well, which he stroked on either side of my neck as the poet slowly, rhythmically fucked my throat. I fought the instinct to gag, wanting to accommodate him well.

He took his time in building to an ejaculation and there never was hint that he would do other than come in my throat, which he did. The count came as well on my bare shoulder. If others in the ballroom marked our tableau, they showed no signs of it. They all were at the height of fucking my other eleven fellow students, and there being more guests in the room than students, some students were being attended to by more than one costumed guest at a time.

"I believe I would enjoy a nighttime gondola ride," the poet said to the count over my shoulder when he had come in my throat. He had not softened, though, and I knew that we were only at a beginning. I was correct in that assumption. As the count went off to arrange for a gondola, the poet bent me over the edge of the platform, encircled my waist with one of his arms, and raised my buttocks to him. He ran his hands inside my thighs on either side, and I spread my legs.

"Ja, fick mich—Yes, fuck me," I murmured to let him know he had free rein with me.

The student he had fucked earlier was still there, puddled on the floor next to the edge of the platform, unconscious and looking pale. But the student had a beatific smile on his pretty, alabaster-white face.

Kneeling, Pantalone moved his face to my buttocks, slid that large, projecting hooked nose into my crack, and began opening me up by tonguing and using his nose to worry my channel entrance open. My dream was coming into being, and I felt the cum boiling in my testicles. The Roman senator had opened me to some extent but nothing like Pantalone's girth required. As he worked my channel opening with his tongue and nose, he snaked a hand between my legs and, as I moaned and panted my pleasure, praising his prowess and encouraging his attentions, he milked my cock until I came for him. It didn't take long. After this, it was all for the pleasure of the poet. He demanded submission to his needs and desires and I gave him what he wanted.

I wasn't open enough when he was overcome with the need to be inside me and did considerable writhing, groaning, and crying out when he stood, crouched over me, and began opening me up completely to and with the extraordinarily thick cock.

He took me in long, slow slides, cupping my chin and arching my back into him, the back of my head pressed into his chest, going in deep, depositing his second load seemingly up into my stomach while he buried his face in the hollow of my neck and licked and teethed me there. I felt the prick of his teeth at my neck, and his fucking settled down into a coordinated rhythm of a sucking sensation at my throat and the movement of his cock inside me.

When the count returned to tell the poet that the gondola was waiting for him, Pantalone had finished both feeding at my throat and giving me his long flow of cum. As he had sucked my blood, his cock had only increased in thickness, so that, if I had been in the condition to worry, which I was not, I would have fears of my channel walls splitting before his flow started and his cock deflated to more manageable proportions.

I lay, weak, numb, and exhausted under him, in his embrace, as the count told him of the gondola ride arrangements. He then picked me up in his arms and followed the count out of the palazzo, down the external wooden steps and the Calle dei Cortellotti to the Zattera al Ponte Longo pier, where a long, sleek, black gondola rested against the pier, with a black-shrouded gondolier standing behind the covered bower, leaning on his pole. The poet carried me into the covered bower and lay me gently on my back on the cushions. The count came onto the gondola and crouched at the bow, facing us.

I was floating in another world, weak and lethargic. But I was humming from the memory of the poet's giant member inside me, working magic on me. I longed for him to be there again, and he soon was, as the gondolier silently polled us into the Giudecca Canal and around to and into the Grand Canal, and thus into guts of the ancient city of Venice.

By the time we pulled into the entrance of the Grand Canal, the poet was already deep in my guts again and thrusting, gliding, sliding, breeding. When he laid me in the bower, he placed a pillow under the small of my back. He covered my heaving breasts with the palms of his hands and slowly moved them down my torso, resting the heels of his hands on where my trembling belly met my thighs on each side, with his fingers invading my pubic bush, the tips touching the base of my cock and rubbed lightly, making me go harder than before and leak precum. I whimpered to him in German, "Tu Es! Nimm mich. Immer wieder. Nimm mich—Do it; take me again and again."

He laughed, a quiet, deep-chested guttural laugh, and his hands went on the move again, down onto my inner thighs. I spread my legs for him, whispering "Fick mich; züchten mich—fuck me; breed me," and bent them, placing my feet flat on the gondola's deck. I rolled and raised my pelvis higher to signal that I wanted him to slide inside me—raw. I did this even knowing already that he had a cock that could split me—would split me if he didn't control himself—and that it expanded in girth as he ravished and fed on me. Still fully clothed, the German poet—because I now knew him to be of Germanic nationality—came down on his knees between my thighs. He reached took away the sheepskin from my shoulder, leaving me fully naked and open and vulnerable to him. Sweeping his black cloak over us both, he came down on top of me, entering me again with his shaft, as, groaning deeply and digging my claws into his shoulders, I fought to open to his massive, throbbing cock.

"Fick. Fick mich," I sighed, collapsing under him, fully open to whatever he wanted from me. His hands gliding back up to cup my face between them and moving his face to the hollow of my neck. Knowing his need and want, which now my own matched, I turned my head at the gently pressure of his hands and exposed my throat to him.

"Tu es. Trink mein Blut wieder. Nehmen Sie alles, was Sie von mir willst, solange du mich fickst und züchten mich—Do it. Drink my blood again. Take anything you want from, as long as you fuck me and breed me," I murmured. I hardly felt the prick of his teeth, the not unpleasant sensation of my blood moving from me to him.

I heard myself, as if from afar, murmuring, in Italian this time, as I was lost in the moment, "Cazzo. 'Sti cazzi. Minchia—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," and, starting to move his hips, his cock now moving in and out, in deeper, out, in deeper, the poet acceded to my wishes. Thrusting, gliding, sliding, stroking, breeding—and gently sucking.

As the gondolier poled us silently through the canals of Venice, asleep in the darkest of night, and the count knelt in the bow, watching the undulation of the poet's black, covering cloak, and stroking himself off, the poet slowly fucked and fed on me through the canals, the water lapping at the sides of the gondola in rhythm to the poet's stroking of my channel and feeding at my throat.

When the poet thought best to suspend his feeding—he's always subsequently been careful about that, giving me a chance to recover before he's fed of me again—he turned us, so that he was under me, me facing up, my torso arched, my buttocks drawn back, so that he was still inside me. As he wasn't feeding, his shaft was diminishing to a manageable extent again, which was a very good thing under the circumstances.

"Would you like to join us, Cortesi?" I heard him murmur of the sound of the gondola moving through the canals of Venice. The count would, of course. As he rose and moved forward in the gondola, the poet grasped and raised and spread my legs. The count, still costumed as Harlequin, including retaining his mask, came down between my thighs. Only his erection was exposed. He captured my eyes with his flashing orbs and grasped my waist between his hands, holding me in place as, what energy I had left was expended to arching my back more and moaning deeply, he entered me with his cock, sliding it inside on top the poet's still-buried cock.

We glided through the canals of Venice as the two men worked me together and I floated on a cloud of exhaustion, lethargy, and a sensation of complete fulfillment.

* * * *

"Check to make sure that all of your belongings are packed," Count Cortesi said to me the next morning when I had been summoned to his office. I was walking in a cloud, both lethargic and with a feeling of satiation. I was both numb and feeling the tingle of electric impulses moving through me. I had no idea how I had gained my own bed before waking in the morning. The last I could remember—and that was through a haze of ringing in my ears—was being in the gondola, sandwiched between the two costumed men who were both moving their cocks inside me. "The launch will be here in an hour to take you to the baron."

"So, I am to go to the poet? He was pleased with me?" I asked.

"Yes. He has been generous—contributing more to the academy that any other man has to take a student on and to mentor him. You are very lucky that the Baron Klaus von Hausmann took to you so well. Curiously, he wanted to make sure that you were a Bausch. He said that he has always found the Baushs the most nourishing, invigorating, and satisfying."

"Von Hausmann," I asked, a lump going to my throat. "Of Vienna? The lyricist?"

"Yes. That's what song lyrics are—poetry," the count said. "Are you satisfied with the arrangement?" He looked a little concerned, no doubt because he had seen the hesitancy in me when I had realized who the poet was—and that I would be joining my father and grandfather as some form of a slave in the baron's castle. I suddenly realized why those men had seemed so lethargic and separated from the world the few times I had visited them in the baron's castle. It was dawning on me what sort of life I was on the threshold of leading. I thought of the baron and of his massive cock and sexual expertise. Is this what I wanted?

"Are you satisfied? Is this what you want?" Count Cortesi repeated.

"Yes, Patrono, this is what I want," I answered—honestly. I wanted to be in thrall to the baron for ever and ever. Not for a moment did a fear for my life. Both my father and grandfather were still serving the baron, were they not?

"Well, come over to me and lower your trousers—for one last time," he said.

"Yes, Patrono," I said submissively.