Roman Pleasures

"I know my men. I think it is Paulo you want to fuck," he said after a few minutes of silence. "I think I am too old for your tastes. I think that you are sorry that Paulo was gone from the restaurant when we left."

"Umberto," I said, "you're a gorgeous young man." I didn't say I wasn't sorry that Paulo hadn't been on offer tonight as well—because I was.

"It is all right. I understand. It was a good fuck. It was very good for me. You have given me more than enough for the fuck. You are very generous. And you are a handsome man—very fit for your age. Big-cocked. I like that. I like that a lot. The men in the village age quickly and they sit in the square and drink so much that they quickly go to fat. You have a great body and you give good fuck. I enjoyed it. You enjoyed it. Just not 'immensely.' I think it is Paulo you want to fuck. You want to fuck an older youth. Paulo is nineteen. You want to fuck nineteen, not twenty-one. It is OK. You have a very nice cock. I—"

"Umberto. Umberto."

"What?"

"Shut up, Umberto, and come back here." He tossed his cigarette over the balcony railing and came back to the bed. I grabbed his wrists, turned him, and slammed his back down on the bed. His eyes were flashing at me. I moved my knees between his thighs and leaned over, his wrists still in my grasp, and took his lips with mine, forcing them open, moving my tongue inside. As I brutally kissed him, I moved my knees under his buttocks, positioned my cock, and cruelly thrust up into his passage, still open and stretched to my needs from the first fuck. He was game for a second fuck. He was as tall and nearly as muscular as I was. He could have fought me for control, but he didn't.

He raised his pelvis to me, planting his feet flat on the mattress to gain leverage, and began to rock against me. We bounced up and down on the bed. The headboard grated against the wall as I pumped him hard and deep. I prayed that the sound didn't descend two flights to the reception lobby. I fucked the hell of out him and flooded him with my cum again.

He lay there gasping and panting—and smiling and looking at me with awe—as I rolled off him, pulled a cigarette out of his pack, went over to the French window, and took up the pose that he had left.

I'd done what I needed to do. I hadn't said he was wrong about me really wanting Paulo, because he hadn't been wrong. But I knew how to fuck a man—and fucking a twenty-one-year-old was closer to my ideal and preference than doing an older man. So, I performed.

"That was more than nice," he murmured when he could get his breath. "You fucked me good—immense—you have a big cock. Immense. You fucked me good."

"And you have enough experience with men to compare?" I shot back. He'd said it. I hadn't been convinced that he was a frequently practicing male whore, but after his performance I needed to assess that. He'd named a price, but it had been so small, I didn't think he was a pro. I hadn't taken that this was a small Italian village, not New York or even Rome, though.

"Enough," he said, with a smile, standing his ground.

I smiled back and puffed on his cigarette. "Yes, I fucked you good, Umberto," I said. But I had been thinking of Paulo when I was fucking Umberto.

He took his money and left smiling.

* * * *

The next morning, Sunday, I paid for another night in the hotel and roamed the village during the hours before noon, listening to the bells on the village church ringing endlessly. I saw several houses with "for rent" or "for sale" signs and a few buildings that looked deserted. But the village wasn't run down. The younger people probably were leaving for the city, but they'd been doing that everywhere in the world for decades. Those who had stayed here were taking pride in their village. They were keeping it up.

And the young men here were beautiful. Everywhere I turned there were beautiful men. I thought of what Umberto had said about the village men going to pot as they got older, and that made me a bit melancholy. It did, however support my fetish for young men.

At lunch I sat and watched the boats in the harbor, and, of course, the young men playing soccer on the beach again. From time to time, when I looked down at the beach, I could see both Umberto and Paulo looking up at me on the terrace of the restaurant and whispering to each other.

That afternoon, in the heat of the day, I stripped in my room, with the French window open and the ceiling fan going whop, whop, whop overhead, and I slept. I dreamed of lying with an Italian young man. Not a twenty-one-year-old man. An eighteen- or nineteen-year-old youth. Not with Umberto. With Paulo, running my hands over the supple, sleek skin of teenager's torso rather than the muscular one of a young man. I woke up in erection and with my hand gripping my cock. I let it finish its work—and fantasized of my hands gliding over the golden tan, supple skin of the nineteen-year-old youth, my fingers finding and entering his passage, and Paulo arching his back and rocking on the buried fingers as I slowly dilated him to my needs.

I went back to the restaurant at nine for dinner. Umberto was in the corner, playing his guitar and singing a sad song. He didn't stay as long as he had the previous night, though. An older man, alone at a nearby table, heavy and coarse-looking in middle age as the other mature men of the village appeared to be, went over and talked with Umberto and they left together. Ah, he really was the village male prostitute, I thought. Even the local men used his services and he willingly went with them even if they were ugly. That was fine with me. I wished Umberto well, hoping that he would be fucked by a man more aroused by him than I was. Not that Umberto wasn't arousing. He was a beautiful young man. He just wasn't my fetish.

My waiter, Paulo, who was my fetish, came after my dessert and coffee were served and consumed, stood close to me, and said, "Umberto says you want to fuck me. Do you want to fuck me now? I can leave the restaurant now. You are a beautiful man. I am happy to go with you for little money. You are an American. You will not think me expensive."

"Yes, Paulo, I want to fuck you."

* * * *

Holding him close under me, his belly to the bed, with me holding his pelvis up high enough that he could reach his cock and jack himself, while, deep inside him, I took him in long, slow slides after I had carefully worked him to ensure his passage was stretched enough to sheath me. Glide, glide, glide.

Paulo was panting and gasping. He called out in a strangled voice, "Sì, sì, padrone! È così grande!"

"Big. Too big, did you say?" I asked, concerned for him, but not intending to stop or even to slow up. In fact, I was moving faster, digging deeper. I would be working him hard in a few minutes. But he'd be totally open to me, yielding to me, surrendering to me. He would suffer, but he would love it. I would love him beyond the pain into paradise. Glide, glide, thrust, glide, thrust.

"Sì, sì, padrone! Dammelo. Fanculo a me!—Yes, yes, Master. Give it to me! Fuck me!"

I held Paulo close, tight to my body, my pelvis moving. Mining his ass. Loving it. Making love to my sweet, tender, smooth-skinned older youth. Thrust—Augustus in Agrippa. Thrust—Trajan in Hadrian. Thrust—Hadrian in the god Antinous. Thrust—Tiberius in all the young men. Thrust—Elagabalus in the Smyrna athlete Zoticus. The fraternity of Roman emperors—men—loving their young men. Men fucking much younger men. When in Italy . . .

Just . . . can't . . . help it. He wasn't totally virginal, but he was fresh enough—and willing and yielding.

"Sì, sì, padrone! Dammelo. Fanculo a me!"

Being very good, very, very good to my young man. Thrust, thrust, thrust.

Paulo lay there on the bed, on his belly, an arm dangling over the side in exhaustion and completion, his eyes following me as I moved about the room and went to the window and leaned into the doorframe, looking down at the lights in the harbor. I was in heaven. It had been fifteen minutes since I breeded him. I was in erection again. I looked over at him. His buttocks were pointed at me, his sleek torso stretched out, his pink little hole dilated, pulsing, reamed to my needs, dripping my cum, ready for me again.

"Sei così grande, padrone—You are so big, Master."

"Yes I am. Too big for you?" I'd ask, but I didn't really care what he answered. The sense of being too big for him was part of the arousal of the fetish. He stretched for me once; he'd do it again . . . and again.

"No, padrone, non troppo grande per me. Ogni volta sarà più facile. Sii buono con me. Torna da me—No, master, not too big for me. Each time will be easier. Be good to me. Come back to me."

I smiled. The young man was mine. "Yes, Paulo, I'll be very good to you."

And then I was. I pushed off from the doorframe and went back to the bed, gently lifting and turning him, putting him on his back, pulling his pert little buttocks down to the foot of the bed, running my hands lovingly over his sleek, smooth-skinned torso, grasping his ankles and raising and spreading his legs. Positioning the bulb of my cock at his pulsing, dilated, pink hole. Grasping my shaft and rimming his hole with the mushroom cap, teasing the hole to dilate more. And then . . .

He cried out, arched his back and head, and yawned and babbled to the ceiling as I entered him and started to slow pump him again. I sensed him settling down, relaxing, melding to me. I moved my right hand from his leg, which he wrapped around me, placing his heel on my buttocks. My hand went to palming the small of his back, pulling him in to me with each sinking stroke inside him. He rocked against me in synch to my rhythm, and we became one, coordinated unit, a synchronized fucking machine—giving and taking, luxuriating in each other. We were fucking—not just me—we. We had found our groove.

"Sì, sì, sì," he sobbed and I repeated that, "Yes, yes, yes," timing each "yes" with a thrust, met with his thrust against me, impaling himself deeper, the muscles of his walls undulating over the stretching shaft, both of us holding there after an eternity of blissful pumping, panting lightly, all senses of both of us concentrating on his rippling channel walls milking my pulsing cock dry.

At the door later, where he was standing with the money in his hand I gave him, I said, "Tomorrow night?"

"Sì, padrone. Domani sera—Yes, Master. Tomorrow night." He was looking down at his feet, diffidently, but he was giving a little smile. It was more money than he'd ever seen at one time before. I don't know if it really was the only big cock he'd ever sheathed before—he had taken mine too well to have been a virgin. Umberto may not be the only male whore working at that restaurant. But I didn't care as long as he took mine until he was twenty.

Then? What then? Paulo wasn't the only nubile young man I'd watched playing soccer on the harbor beach.

"I enjoyed that immensely, Paulo," I said, knowing he wouldn't understand what I meant by that. But I understood. I knew what I wanted and needed.

The next day I contacted the town's realtor, inspected all of the houses in the village that were for rent, and put money down on one of them. I still didn't know what the name of this village was. It didn't seem to matter. Then I walked to the terrace restaurant and settled in to watch the soccer play on the beach. There weren't as many of them today. It was Monday. The workweek had started and some of the young men had jobs. There was one small, blond, though, gliding gracefully around, perfectly proportioned. It looked like it wouldn't be long before he was eighteen. He kept looking up at the terrace—at me—and smiling. I smiled back. I could wait.