“You know I would give you money if you wanted–for anything but what you’ve said you need money for.”
“I know how you feel about my plans to marry Missy Vanderhof, Anton. I wouldn’t ask you for the money I need for a honeymoon. In fact, I don’t know why you’ve been willing to set this arrangement up for me.”
“I owe a favor to Luigi too.”
I felt it was more than this. Some days I felt that Anton was possessive and jealous of my relationship with a woman and other days I felt that he was tired of me. At one time I thought we were moving to a deeper commitment, but now I wasn’t sure. I had not been the one who was vacillating, but this needed to be brought to a head.
We were on a balcony of Villa Sebastian overlooking Italy’s Lake Como, the town of Bellagio on the far shore, and the Grigna Mountains in the Italian Alps beyond. You couldn’t ask for a more idyllic backdrop for what we were doing. I was lying on my back on a chaise lounge, my silk robe parted and flowing away from me on either side. Anton’s knees were buried far up the small of my back, his dick already two inches inside me, waiting for me to open fully to him. He was bent nearly in two and had just lifted his mouth from my cock. I had already sucked his cock to throbbing. There was no question that he was going to fuck me.
I had known that this was what the owner of the prestigious New York art gallery had brought me on the business trip to Rome for, although I was surprised he did as he hadn’t appreciated at all learning that I planned to marry into the superwealthy Vanderhof family of the Hamptons on Long Island. My cajoling that being married into the Vanderhofs would make me all the more effective in selling the art in his gallery didn’t seem to impress Anton much.
To make that momentous move, I also had to declare that I was going fully straight. No more sitting on that fence, going with men and women alike. The Vanderhofs were just too conservative and too much in the public eye. Anton hadn’t taken it well that I wouldn’t continue with him on the sly in spite of what I told others I associated with.
I owed him everything. He’d pulled me out of a Chippendales lineup in Las Vegas, saying I had just what he wanted in an art salesman–and in his bed. Knowing artists of all kinds, he had diplomas forged for me at the prestigious Potomac School college prep institution in Virginia and the University of Pennsylvania, not wanting to use schools closer to New York, where clients of the gallery might ask “do you know?” questions. He also had completely outfitted me for the part of a well-heeled New York patrician and had schooled me well in the type of art he handled.
In my defense, I learned quickly and didn’t flaunt my “degrees.”
When I thought he would kick me out for going “straight,” he surprised me by offering me the chance to go to Rome with him on a buying trip. He made no bones about where I’d be sleeping during the trip, and I didn’t kick up a fuss. I may have pledged (to myself–of course Missy and her family had no idea I swung both ways. To them, I was just fetching and harmless eye candy) to go one way for something much more comfortable than just security, but the ceremony wasn’t for a couple of months and I saw no reason to start early.
Anton was a good lover. He wasn’t young–he was in his early fifties–but he was trim and handsome. And he was equipped like a horse and knew how to use his equipment.
I had told him before he’d offered to bring me on this trip that I needed to do some side art deals to earn enough money for the sort of honeymoon Missy and her family would expect. Anton turned me down flat on that–and also said even then he wouldn’t give me money to pay for what he said would be the biggest mistake in my life–but he did say, although he didn’t want to hear of me making any side art deals, that he’d help me earn the money myself in another way.
He was secretive on how that would happen beyond saying we could combine the trip he already had planned with a money-making venture for me. He really was being too generous about all that–suspiciously so, I thought, knowing how he had railed behind my back about me selling out to the Vanderhofs. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t figure out the angle he would be using to stick it to me. Not even after he laid out the plan he’d worked out–which was after he fucked me that morning on the balcony of Villa Sebastian overlooking Lake Como, Belagio, and the Grigna Mountains, could I figure out what his stake in this was–beyond that favor he said he owed Luigi.
We both felt the head of his cock breaching my sphincter muscle. Having done that, he plunged for the depths with that long, thick cock of his, making me arch my back, encase the small of his back with my legs, cry out to the heavens, and hold on for dear life as he pumped me hard and deep. It was a rough fuck, but then that was Anton’s style–refined in public demeanor; cruel in bed. It didn’t leave me with the impression that he was demonstrating his anger at my decision to leave his bed when we returned to New York.
After he had finished me, making sure that I came before he did, he held for a few minutes, his forehead plastered to mine and watching the fire in my eyes die down to embers of fulfillment and satisfaction. When we’d both cooled–although I knew it wasn’t really over; it rarely was over with Anton with just one fuck–he rose off me, pulled me up from the chaise lounge, and guided me over to the marble balustrade overlooking the ground that sloped down to the lake. A stone terrace descended in different levels to the lake and a stone pier and boat house. A swimming pool took up most of the terrace two levels down from the house. Two young men–as young as I was, mid twenties, and in as good a physical shape as I was in, which was very good indeed–were walking around the pool. I had been here a day and a half but I hadn’t seen them before–just Luigi, the fashion photographer whose villa this was and his somewhat elderly house staff.
“See the young men down there?” Anton asked.
“Yes. Are they pool boys?” One of them was using a long-handled skimmer to take leaves out of the pool.
“No. They are male models. They are here for Luigi to photograph. If you wish to earn money for your honeymoon, you will get to know those men intimately. And Luigi will be photographing you as well.”
I suddenly understood what this money-making plan was. I still was suspicious about Anton’s motives, and it may have been that he thought this would embarrass me or that I wouldn’t sign off permission to be photographed with those two for someone’s private collection. But, if so, Anton didn’t fully understand what my short life as a Chippendales dancer had entailed. He should have understood; he fucked me the first night he saw me perform on stage.
I could do this.
* * * *
I was at a disadvantage all during the photo shoots. I spoke a little French, so I could converse to a limited extent with the French model, Jacques, a tall, slender and willowy, androgynous beauty with dark, sultry looks. Luigi, the photographer, a hirsute middle-aged man, who was stocky but heavily muscled, and the other model, an Italian, Paulo, also of dark complexion, but more swarthy than sultry, and strongly muscular, spoke only Italian.
Anton, who, I think, fluently spoke every language known to man, had returned to Rome to buy more paintings, saying that I would know what I needed to do when it arose and that what I needed to do wouldn’t have much to do with talking.
What I needed to do was to pay attention and to let Luigi–and the other two models, as needed–manipulate my body as if I was a manikin. And I had to let them pose fashion clothing or remove clothing as they willed. The three of them jabbered like magpies over the scene being shot, and I just did their bidding. Being the blond among dark and sultry Mediterranean men, I always seemed to be in the middle of whatever shoot there was.
Luigi would click off still shots while two assistants walked around with video cameras. We used the full facilities of the villa, from the lakefront to the swimming pool and balcony, and even the various sumptuously appointed bedrooms.
Anton had warned me that the photos included fashion shots but would continue on into three-way sex sessions, with the latter material being sold at high prices to private collectors.
“You’ll see clothing shots in international fashion magazines,” Anton had said, “But the collector material at the other end of the spectrum will remain in private collector hands.”
I made the mistake of not asking him what happened to the material in the middle of the spectrum. I don’t know if he would have truthfully told me how some of the fuck scenes would be handled even if I’d asked him. The money being offered, though, was so good that I didn’t ask him.
I had never done double penetration before, but I did it now. Typically, the posed clothed shots would move on to me–the Nordic blond–between the two dark-complexioned men, with them undressing me while the three of us kissed and groped one another. More often than not, the first fucking, after I had been on my knees, working their exposed cocks with my mouth, was the two of them taking me separately with the other one still embracing us and both of them clothed. Anton told me later that there was a special market for shots and vids of two clothed men fucking a naked one.
After a break, Jacques and Paulo would get naked too, and we would wrestle around on the given set, with me flat on my back, one of the other models sucking my cock and ass while, my head flung back, I sucked off the other model. They would take turns fucking me then, as I sucked the other one, until the climax came with various positions of both of them with their cocks inside me.
As enjoyable as these two young studs were–in addition to making a lot of money out of letting them have their way with me–the attentions of Luigi were even more arousing. I’d had no idea he would get into the act too, but he did, running the whole gamut from posing with me in clothes for fashion layouts to fucking me hard on lounge beds by the pool and in his own bed, both for the cameras to roll and, at night, between his sheets.
Luigi was well versed in the poses of models, obviously having been one himself earlier in life, and he was very well preserved–a Mediterranean Zeus.
He surprised me the first time he fucked me on the chaise lounge on the villa’s balcony where Anton last had nailed me. The surprises were threefold: he manipulated me in such inventive positions; he was horse hung, having a bigger and thicker cock than either of the other models–and of Anton, as well–and I discovered he knew a little English.
“Give me it, give me it, givemeit, baby,” he cried out as I was rolled up onto my shoulder blades on the surface of the chaise lounge; Luigi crouched over me, covering me close; my legs stretched out, my ankles fisted in his hands; and his cock driving deep inside me.
I was doing some yelling too and moaning at the thickness of him; the feel of his curly, salt-and-pepper chest hair rubbing on my chest; and the big cock of his penetrating and corkscrewing down into me. All the time the cameras were running and an assistant was clicking off still shots.
“Oh god, yes, fuck me, Fuck me, FUCK ME!” I responded with genuine passion.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, right, baby,” he answered in heavily accented English, as he drove harder and faster.
“Fuck, yeah, fuck yeah. Give it to me,” I answered in English, involuntarily, not knowing or caring if he understood me. Just wanting him to continue pounding me.
And then, as he settled down into a rhythm, “Lax, baby. Daddy take good care you.”
Presuming he was telling me to relax, I did so, going limp, allowing him to penetrate deeper. And he indeed was taking good care of me–very good care indeed.
* * * *
I was lying on my belly on Anton’s bed back in Manhattan, and he was stretched out on top of me, his cock still buried inside me, both of us, no doubt, concentrating all of our sensations on his cock going flaccid inside me. I thought of it as a farewell fuck. I hadn’t told him, but I’d found a small apartment of my own. There had been no change in our relationship since we’d come back to New York from Rome. And I was slightly irritated that he had so easily given me over to the type of modeling job on Lake Como that he had. Surely he knew what it would entail. He couldn’t think much of our relationship if he’d let me fall into that.
I half wondered if he’d gotten a kickback from Luigi for bringing me to the Italian photographer. Or maybe this was his passive aggressive way of getting back at me for my plan to marry and then be faithful to a woman.
We were getting closer and closer to a wedding date, so I had decided that I might as well just leave Anton’s bed–and his employment if he fired me–sooner rather than right before moving out to Long Island to the Vanderhof estate.
“Anton, I think–” I started to say to begin the transition.
“I want you to see something I bought today,” he said, interrupting me as if he hadn’t heard me say anything, He pulled out of me and bounced out of the bed. He left the room. When he came back, he was holding a paperback book in his hands. “I think you’ll find this interesting.”
I took it from him, looked at the cover of the book, and then back at him, in surprise.
“That’s me on the cover of the book–with Luigi. Not a fashion shot. An image of us embracing, half naked.” The title on the cover was “Taken at Lake Como.” The author’s name was habu.
“Yes. Isn’t it a scintillating photo? Now I wish I’d been able to stay at Lake Como for that week. Luigi told me that you were quite enjoyable–quite good. Go ahead, read a few paragraphs.”
Half in shock, I opened the book and started to read:
“Give me it, give me it, givemeit, baby,” the count cried out as the American rent-boy, Jon, was rolled up onto his shoulder blades on the surface of the chaise lounge; Count Benito crouched over the beautifully formed body of the blond prostitute, covering him close; stretching his flexible legs out, gripping the young man’s ankles with his strong, patrician hands; and driving his thick cock deep inside the well-used anal passage.
The American writhed under the horse-hung count, crying out for the fuck and moaning at the thickness of him; the feel of his curly, salt-and-pepper chest hair rubbing on the American’s heaving chest; and the big cock of his penetrating and corkscrewing down into the depths of the throbbing channel.
“Oh god, yes, fuck me, Fuck me, FUCK ME!” the rent-boy answered.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, right, baby,” the count answered in heavily accented English, as he drove harder and faster.
“Fuck, yeah, fuck yeah. Give it to me,” Jon answered in English, involuntarily, not knowing or carrying if the count understood him. Just wanting him to continue pounding away with his cock.
And then, as he settled down into a rhythm, the count whispered, “Relax, baby. Daddy will take good care of you.” Having given the Italian aristocrat the arousal that got him hard and saddled, Jon relaxed and went limp, his arms dangling off the sides of the chaise lounge on the balcony of the count’s lakeside villa, and arching his head over the end of the divan for his mouth to receive the cock of the count’s son, Guido, as the young man moved into place and his hands slid down to the American rent-boy’s nipples.
“That’s me,” I said, now in deeper shock. “Not just the cover image but the text as well. And whereas Luigi’s name was changed, mine wasn’t. Anyone I know reading this will know it’s me.”
“Precisely,” Anton said, with a smile on his face. “I thought using your real name was a nice touch. I think I forgot to tell you that, in addition to fashion photographs and private porn clients, Luigi runs a gay male image photo service. Your image is going to be plastered over quite a few erotica and porn books, I’ll bet–a lot of them with gay content. This one is as connected to you personally as it can get.”
“I don’t understand. Why–?”
“It would be tragic, I think if this were to fall into the hands of the Vanderhofs. I doubt they’d want you to marry into their family with book covers like this floating around.”
“You would–?”
“I’ve thought of everything I could to keep you with me, to keep you from making the mistake of trying to act straight. It would be a miserable life for you. And I want you so much. You don’t have to marry Missy Vanderhof. You could marry me.”
“Marry you? You’d go to these lengths to keep me with you?”
Beyond what I was saying, I was searching my mind for evidence that he, as he said, had tried everything he could to keep me with him. I certainly hadn’t seen that. I thought I’d done everything I could to open his eyes to committing to me, without effect. What had he just said? That I could marry him?
“Yes, you must know I want you to stay with me.”
“Well, if you want it that badly . . .” I tried to hide my euphoria. This was all I wanted. Bringing in the possibility of marrying Missy Vanderhof had all been a Hail Mary ploy to try to make him commit. And it had worked. Not in the way I had anticipated, but it nevertheless had worked.
“Let me show you how badly I want to keep you,” he whispered, as, having gotten hard again, his cock once more was beginning to move inside me.
I relaxed. “Oh, Daddy, give it to me,” I whispered, determined to read the rest of that book as soon as I could to see just how much sex I had enjoyed between its covers.
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