The Substitute Travel Companion

I endured riding under his mastery until I was nearly exhausted, as he gripped my hips between his hands, trying his best to make the tips of his fingers meet over the small of my back, and thrust, thrust, thrust. He kept whispering in my ear to relax and give myself to him, and when he felt that I had surrendered, he pulled out of me, released the restraints on my ankles and thighs, and turned me onto my back. He raised my legs, one after the other, and used the restraints he'd released me from to bind me at my spread ankles at the top opposite corners at the underframe of the upper bunk. He then moved between my spread thighs, grasped and squeezed my buttocks cheeks spread them open to dilate my anus, raised my pelvis to him, mounted and penetrated me again in the missionary position, and resumed fucking me.

Again I bucked against him for a while in useless defense, but he was stroking my cock with one hand as he rode me, and after I'd come, I just collapsed under him and took the churning of his bead-pierced cock. He barebacked me in this first taking, which afforded me the full effect of the piercings. After several moments of fucking me in this position, he surmised--correctly--that any of the fight or opposition that might have been in me was gone. He owned me now, and we both knew it. He unbound my ankles and wrists and freed me of the ball gag. His lips went to mine and my body melded with his as he knelt between my thighs. My knees hugged his hips and my fingernails buried themselves in his biceps, and I locked my pelvis with his, his cock churning deep inside me, and I moved with him.

He owned me and I was committed to the fuck as much as he was. I focused on the unusual and overwhelming sensation of those beads pierced into his cock working the muscles of my passage walls, and, as a result, I gave him a wild and vigorous ride and danced on the clouds I'd never gone to with another man, including Fed. For his part, Lorenzo was what I called a "Boléro" cocksman after the cadence of the famous song by that title. He started slow and picked up speed and intensity as he marched inevitably to his release, leaving me totally wiped out and babbling at the finish. I had come twice while he was forcing me. When he ejaculated at last, I cried out my "Yes, yes! Breed me!" as he did just that with a sharp cry of his own, tensing and jerking and releasing, tensing and jerking and releasing, flooding me deep in my core with his cum.

He left me then, without apology or words of consolation, to drift off into a panting, humming sleep, fully satiated, totally conquered--but, nonetheless, forced.

I woke to the alarm I'd set. We were due into Chicago's Union Station at 10:00. We had to breakfast and prepare for departure before that. At supper, we had agreed that, since I had an alarm clock and Carbone didn't, I would come to his roomette at 7:00 to ensure he was up and dressed and we'd go to the dining car together.

I had the key to his roomette and entered to find he wasn't anywhere close to being ready to go to breakfast. He was stretched out on his lower bunk, naked, and he was holding the effeminate waiter, Sean, into his body, embracing him with one hand stroking off Sean's cock. The young man's buttocks were nestled into Carbone's crotch and the older man's hips were moving in the rhythm of the deep fuck. Both men looked at me, standing in the doorway of the roomette. Carbone's expression was one of "so what?" and amusement. Sean's face showed an expression of victory, as if he was getting something that had been denied me when, of course, he wasn't.

I turned and left. I went to the dining car and had finished my breakfast when Carbone arrived, looking as elegant, relaxed, and sexy as always. I sat there, across from him, at a table, watching him eat his own breakfast. He used this time to indicate what he'd like to see in Chicago, a city he'd never been to, but that he'd studied the classic architecture of. The conversation was completely devoid of any references to him having bound and forced me in the night or having given the waiter Sean what he so obviously had wanted later in the morning. For my part, I didn't bring it up either. I was both embarrassed and confused by the realization that, no matter how forced the sex had been, I had found that the sensation of being controlled and forced had sent me higher into the clouds of satiation than any other sex act I had tried.

* * * *

Lorenzo had booked us into the Radisson Blue Aqua Hotel, on North Columbus, an easy--for an athletic type like Lorenzo--walk north to the Navy Pier and south to the large park area on the shore of Lake Michigan that had been the location of the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893 and that now consisted of a series of parks and cultural museums. The Italian had expressed an interest in Chicago's world-acclaimed urban architecture and in its art galleries.

The hotel was gay friendly enough that none of the desk clerks raised an eyebrow or hesitated when we were checking into one room, with one king-sized bed. The pretense could be that we were father and son--which still would have raised the question of the one bed--maybe more so than if we were an unrelated couple--but Carbone was a dark, sultry, middle-aged Italian and I was a lithe, blond fashion model. There was no pretending that I wasn't his boy toy for this visit. I was quite pleased to have it thought that he was my daddy. I suffered a slight gripe to find he'd only booked the one room. He'd told me there would be two. He'd known that by the time we got to Chicago, I would not balk about being in his bed.

I'd been stewing about that all morning as we moved from train station to the hotel. He had taken me by force. I hadn't said or signaled that he could do so. But by the time the bound assault was over I was accepting--no, welcoming--the fuck. He conditioned me well. Having made clear in New York what he wanted from me, he'd remained aloof, waiting for me to want him--or at least to accept his domination. And I had wanted him. I did want him. Even now, as we were checking in, I couldn't wait to get to the room with the hope that the first activity he had in mind was to fuck me again in quarters not as confining as the lower bunk in the train roomette had been. I wanted to enjoy more of his exotic moves.

We did fuck when we got to the hotel room. Looking back on it, I thought of this as the lover phase of our short relationship, and it reminded me of having thought of that first time, struggling and then surrendering, on the lower bunk of the train roomette that Lorenzo was a "Boléro" lover, starting slow and sensual and building to a wild ride at release. That afternoon and later that night were slow and sensual in the hotel room. Lorenzo was my attentive lover and I was open and vulnerable to him. He was a master of the exotic and arousing positions, and he took me in several, all of them designed for close embrace, deep penetration, and my full enjoyment of those beads pierced along the underside of his cock and the bigger bead in the cock head, working my channel and coaxing out of me the rippling of the muscles of my passage walls.

As the previous night, he barebacked me, and I accepted that both because the rawness of the contact enhanced the feel of that beaded cock inside me and because he had and dispensed pills that he said would negate any negative effect. He said the Italians were way ahead of the rest of the world in aiding sexual pleasure, and I had no argument to give on that. He assured me he was clean, and had a document he obtained upon leaving Italy that claimed that, and I knew, because we were periodically required to test in the fashion house, that I was clean as well. That beaded cock, though, wiped away the last element of caring for me. No other man--not even Fed--had taken me to such heights of completion as that beaded cock did.

We stayed in Chicago for two days and nights. After fucking upon arrival at the Radisson, Lorenzo wanted to take a walk. He wanted to see the classic skyscrapers of Chicago and the gallery of art first hand, so we walked all over the downtown area. He was like a little boy with what we observed and he proved to be an expert in both architecture and art. He made me enjoy Chicago in depth as much as his beaded cock worked me at my deepest core when he bedded me. We ate dinner at Harry Caray's Italian Steakhouse on West Kinzie, near the Chicago River. Lorenzo insisted on trying out someplace claiming to be Italian. He declared the food at the restaurant named for a renowned sports caster of the past as authentic enough. Then we went to a few hole-in-the wall, small-venue gay nightclubs, starting with a somewhat sedate jazz bar and moving toward the raunchier and leather, following his "Boléro" pattern, and ending in the hotel room with him on top of me, banging me furiously, and me enjoying every thrust of it.

One of Lorenzo's fetishes was carried through from the first time he forced me to the last time he beat and whipped me--well, two fetishes. There was always his obsession with how thin my waist and narrow my hips were, and each time we fucked he had a ritual of encasing my hips in his spread hands to hold me steady as he penetrated. This wasn't much of a fetish, though. The other one was more suggestive of what I should have combined with his "Boléro" pattern to register more concern about where this was going. He always wanted to use restraints with me--at least in binding my wrists together. He always wanted me captive and vulnerable. He always wanted and got off on the illusion of a forced taking.

He always wanted the illusion that it was by unaccepted force--and it was, in the first time and then again in the last.

The second day, we left town. We took the El down to Oak Park, which has the largest collection of Frank Llyod Wright-designed houses simply because that's where the famous architect got his start and had his first design studio. We spent the full day finding and examining the Wright-designed houses and church in that town. Lorenzo exhibited that he knew quite a bit about Wright and his design era before we walked the town, but we certainly both knew a lot more when we'd left.

Lorenzo was exuberant with the activities of the day, and he let loose in sex--or started to do so--that night. We were wild in bed--or he was, at least. I was bound and gagged, and he took me hard and rough, slapping me around on the face and buttocks and taking me totally. It was a step up from the previous night, but not so much as to warn me of what was to come.

I had asked him at dinner that night--a rare occurrence, as we almost religiously separated the activities for our day from the bed play at night--what he had planned for this trip if Fed had agreed to come with him.

"Fed is a top too," I said. "I don't think you would have had the same trip with him rather than me."

"Federico shares my passion for art and architecture--and for Frank Lloyed Wright, in particular," Lorenzo said. "We would have enjoyed the same activities by day that I have with you--I just would not have had to be the guide and teacher with Federico that I have been with you. And I'll have to admit I've enjoyed teaching you."

"But night time. The other element of this trip," I persisted.

"I've enjoyed being your teacher in bed too. And I don't think I'm flattering myself in thinking you've enjoyed it too--and have learned."

This far I had enjoyed what I'd learned under him in bed, yes. But that was to change. I didn't know that at this point, however. "You know what I mean. You are both tops. You would not come together in bed as we do."

"Ah, but in our younger days, Federico and I did come together in bed. But we brought one or more young men into bed with us. We worked well together, Frederico and I did. I did rather look forward to doing this again with him. We would have shared on this trip. Perhaps we'd have brought you with us and we would have taught you what two men can do with another."

I shuddered at the thought, but I didn't pursue the point further. He had answered the question. And the two hadn't been together for twenty years. They would have been young men, just a bit older than I now was when they'd done that. And, more important, I would have been a toddler then. Fed and I hadn't met then. I wasn't a sexual being then. He had no obligations to me then. He didn't, in fact, have any obligations to me now. And my obligation to him had been dimmed when he pressed me to go on this trip. I'm sure he knew what Lorenzo would want to do with me. This shoe supply contract must be that important to him.

I did subsequently dream of how it would be with both Fed and Lorenzo in bed with me, perhaps with both of them inside me at once, and I had to admit that the thought of it made me go hard.

No matter what, he was the masterful lover, and I let him take liberties, trading a bit more pain in the taking for the high-passion pleasure it gave me. I reasoned that it was only that night and only because he had been so exhilarated by being steeped in the work of his revered Frank Lloyd Wright. But it wasn't that. I have come to realize that it was a progression--that he was testing my boundaries and finding me yielding at each challenge. We were moving toward his true interests--what got him off the best.

* * * *

I lay spread-eagled on the bed, arms raised, wrists restrained at the opposite corners of the headboard, and legs spread, with ankles likewise bound at the corners of the footboard. I had been biting into the rubber ball gag and screaming in muffled tones that didn't make it beyond the bedroom walls. A bolster was shoved under the small of my back, lifting and tilting my pelvis up. Lorenzo, naked, in erection, and sitting beside me on the bed pulled the dildo out of my ass and raised it so that I could see that it was the mold of a horse's cock--longer and thicker than that of any man. He had fucked me with it until I had come for him.

As much of a horror at seeing what he had been opening me up with, my eyes went huge and I whimpered through the ball gag as I watched him set the dildo aside, pull a surgical glove on his right hand, slather it and my hole with lotion, and then, leaning over me to catch every nuance of reaction on my face, the hand was lowered from my sight, between my spread thighs, I felt the coldness of the lotioned glove on my inner thighs, and then I was writhing and screaming into the ball gag and digging my teeth into the rubber ball--and took it and took it and took it until I couldn't take it anymore and relaxed, allowing him to go in up to the wrist, and whimpered and babbled my surrender.

It was the first time I had been fist fucked.

This was our first night in the lakeside house in South Haven, Michigan, that we were being lent while Carbone finished up the paperwork in his family acquiring a small high-fashion shoe manufacturing plant in the town to expand their Stateside business.

Showing not only his administrative talent, but also the depth of his wealth, Lorenzo had mustered up a sleek late-model Jaguar F-Type sports coup rental that was delivered to our hotel in Chicago and could be dropped off at the South Haven Regional Airport whenever he wanted. It was a two-hour drive east and then north on I-94 along the shore of Lake Michigan, during which I was thinking of how rough he'd been with me in sex the previous night and he, no doubt, was thinking of closing out the sale on the shoe factory and whether there were any Michelan-rated restaurants in South Haven. It turned out there weren't, but Lorenzo found an Italian restaurant, Maria's on Center Street, that satisfied his palette that evening.

The house we were to stay in in South Haven for as long as it took to close the plant sale was a swanky French chateau-style, four-bedroom, five-bath, brick story and a half, with a mansard roof mansion directly on the lakeshore on North Shore Drive. A four-bay garage, with an apartment above it, jutted out toward the street. A terrace, with an infinity pool, stretched along the back and four shallow, grass-covered terraces descended to a grassy lawn merging into a wide beach. The house was owned by the shoe plant's owner, who had retreated to Florida for the sale and who was so anxious that the sale go through that he gave his South Haven house over to Carbone until it did.

The house came with a caretaker, a handsome, tall and lithe Jamaican with a rich, dark-brown skin by the name of Fontel Wallace. The man, who lived in the apartment above the garage, padded around, always nearby but never too obtrusive--or so it seemed. I'm sure he knew what was what in my relationship with Lorenzo Carbone, and the afternoon after our first night there, he revealed that he did. My ball gag had popped out while Lorenzo had his fist up my ass channel, and I'm sure I was vocal enough in response to that that Wallace could have heard us out in his apartment. That wasn't necessary, though, I caught a glimpse of him in the doorway to the bedroom when Lorenzo was pulling his hand out of me and repositioning himself to cover, mount, penetrate, and fuck me.

That he had seen what Carbone was doing--and that I let him do--became clear the next afternoon when Carbone was off doing whatever he had to do on the closing of the plant sale and I had come out to the pool terrace to lie in the sun and continue to recover from being fisted the previous night. I had recovered physically, but I was taking an emotional hit, and not just because of how rough in sex the Italian was becoming with me. Sometime in the night, after he was done with me but before he released me from the restraints, Carbone had gathered up all of my clothes and my suitcase and hidden them somewhere. He was asserting total control over me. I could go nowhere because I was left naked in the house. He'd locked up his own clothes as well.

I was Carbone's captive now--physically as well as sexually. I didn't worry about him keeping me forever. He was compartmenting our relationship still, keeping the general daily chatting and sightseeing sharing on a traveling companion level separate from the dominating, increasing rough sex in bed. I was sure that when the trip was over, that he'd return me to New York and pretend that nothing more forceful had happened as long as I didn't bring it up. What was worrying me, though, was surviving the rough sex to the end of the trip.

What worried me the most was that I might come to crave the rough sex after the exposure to it on this trip was over. I had never before even considered that I would be worked over by a horse cock-shaped and -sized dildo or a man's fist but now I found myself thinking back on having experienced that with thoughts of how arousing a sexually satiating they had been.

As I stretched out, naked, on a lounge bed on the terrace, thinking these disturbing thoughts, the caretaker, Fontel Wallace, came out to skim the pool. He was wearing only a Speedo and his body, although not bulked up, was perfectly proportioned, hard, well-muscled, and a glowing dark chocolate brown. As he skimmed, his gaze kept going to me. I could hardly hide my nakedness and I felt too intimidated by the situation to get up and go back into the house. If I had, my nakedness would have been in even fuller view, especially the fact that watching Wallace skim the pool with graceful movements by that great, brown body of his was making me stiffen up. I could discern the line of his obviously huge cock in the fabric of his swimsuit, and It wasn't my imagination that the shaft swelled as he worked and looked at me from time to time.

I was horny for him, and, knowing he'd see it, I ran a hand down my torso and let it rest on my own engorging cock inside the material of my Speedo. I let my fingers pick out and outline my rod inside the material.