“You must relax and trust me. It’s for your own good. You must be very still or there could be damage.”
I did trust the count. What other reason would I have come with him to this isolated area of his vineyard estate, to this shepherd’s hut, when he said it would be a very special, a dangerous, taking.
Still, I had blurted the question when, my bare buttocks resting on his thighs, both of us naked and facing each other, he bound my wrists behind me and tethered my ankles together behind the small of my back.
“You must trust me,” he whispered in that smooth “he is to be obeyed” baritone voice of his, the impeccable English graced with sexy Italian inflection. A voice that had seduced me and dominated me in the vine fields. Spoken from a magnificent, mature, deeply tanned, hirsute, and muscular body. “I want to take you to ultimate pleasure, but you must trust me and give me your all.”
He took my mouth in his in a sweet, deep kiss, even as one of his hand, the fingers long and slender, with curls of black hair above the knuckles, grasped our cocks together, now both in semi hardness and growing with his grip. I was long and cut but he was longer, thicker, uncut. I gave him a low moan as he stroked the cocks together, frotting them and making them fill out and harden. When he released me from the kiss, he leaned back, and I tongued down his throat to the matting of salt and pepper hair swirling on his pecs and around his taut nipples. He sighed as I tongued and suck on the nipples, giving me a false sense of control.
There was no controlling the count, though. He demanded total surrender in the coupling. We both knew I would submit fully to him.
He sighed for me again, as I took the gold medallion on the chain around his neck into my mouth and sucked on it. One of his hands glided down the small of my back and down, into the crack between my cheeks, finding my opening and entering me. I focused my attention on the invading fingers and the rubbing of our cocks together.
“Oh, fuck, don’t make me wait,” I whimpered. It was involuntarily voiced. When I’d said this before, he’d lingered in taking me, just to show me who was in charge. But he had taken fully–total victory; taking no prisoners.
He didn’t make me wait now, though. The hand cupping my buttocks pressed up, nudging me to rise on his body. The other hand left our cocks and gripped one of my butt cheeks, pulling me into him. My smooth belly moved up against the hairiness of his chest and I released the medallion from my mouth as I arched my chest back. I felt him at my rim–the gold ball piercing at his cock tip and the loose rim skin of his uncut cock pressing insistently into me. The foreskin spread back over the cockhead as he entered me, and I shuddered and cried out the pain-pleasure of being breached without being fully prepared for the thickness of the invasion.
“Make all of the noise you want, little one,” he murmured in that rich voice of his. “There is no one to hear us.”
I realized how vulnerable I was then. Deep into his estate, in the ruins of a shepherd’s hut, bound at wrists and ankles, impaled on his shaft. Trust him. I must trust him.
The cock was slowly working its way up into me, pressing my walls aside, my passage walls slowly, reluctantly giving way to the thick demands of him. The cock drew back a bit and then a small thrust upward into me again, the loose skin of the uncut cock providing a sensation of soft give over the steely hardness of the insistent shaft that lay beneath it. I gasped, and looked wildly outside the door of the hut, across the rolling Tuscan hills, looking for any sign of help and rescue that was not to come.
Trust him, trust him, I set as a mantra in my mind, as the guardian doors to the core of me continue to unlock and slide open to the invasion of his cock, deep up inside me.
“Relax. Open to me. Give yourself to me. Trust me.”
He was deep inside. His hands were gripping my butt cheeks, spreading them and kneading them. He began to pump, thrusting his cock up into me, taking long strokes, the looseness of his foreskin over the steely hardness of the underlying shaft.
“Give it to me. Fuck yourself on it,” he demanded in a silky voice barely covering the steely will of noble aristocrat underneath of the ancient family accustomed to being obeyed, to get its way, to be permitted its pleasures.
He held there, steady, providing the shaft for me to ride. With a whimper I began rising and falling on the cock. He couldn’t be still for long. He began to thrust cruelly up inside me again. I Met his upward thrusts with downward thrusts until, with a jerk and a cry we came together, he deep inside me and me up into the hair of his belly.
We held there, panting, me wondering if this was to be it. It was special, yes, but it wasn’t what he had hinted at; it didn’t require me being bound. There had been nothing dangerous about it; it more or less had been what we’d been doing for weeks. There was nothing here requiring trust–which made it all the easier for me to give him the trust.
* * * *
From the very first time, I had given in to him immediately when he told me to open my legs to him and trust him. Mixing work with travel in my sophomore summer at Dartmouth, I was working a large-estate vineyard with other summer workers, stripped to the waist and sweating under the Tuscan sun, when the owner of the vineyard, the count, rode up on a magnificent white stallion to watch us work. He too was magnificent, commanding, aristocratic, dressed out in elegant riding gear, holding a riding crop loosely over the front of the saddle, and looking intently down between the rows of vines on wire fences. I stood up from my labors and gazed intently back at him.
Within those brief moments, volumes of interest, possibility, and intent passed between us. Mere days later, he was back, singling me out of the workers, lifting a hamper with bottles of wine and packages of bread and cheese in it, and inviting me to a repast under the trees in a copse out of sight of any of the workers in the fields.
I, of course, knew what he wanted. I wanted it to. I had come to Italy to lie under Italian men. Older, experienced, at least slightly rough men. I had already gone under a few of the estate’s muscular vineyard workers, and the count undoubtedly knew that.
Two bottles of wine later, the two of us lying stretched out beside each other on a blanket under a tree, me naked and sighing under the glide of his hands over curves and into crevices, and him fully clothed save for his open fly and the protrusion of his huge, hard, uncut cock, he whispered, “Trust me. Give yourself to me.”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Have you ever been flogged?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Turning me on my belly and taking up his riding crop in hand, he told me to raise my bare buttocks to him. I did so. I whimpered, anticipating the pain to come, as, after kneeling behind me and kissing and tonguing my hole open, he withdrew and flicked his riding crop on my tender buttocks. The bite of the lash increased, as I flinched and groaned. I had anticipated and welcomed the sting of the riding crop from the first moment I saw him holding it in his strong hands across his saddle.
I went hard for him.
He reddened my cheeks with the crop, but he was only testing me–my willingness and my trust–and told me to turn back onto my back, to open my thighs, and to bend my knees, placing my feet flat on the ground. I complied. I did whatever his aristocratic, commanding voice demanded of me. I was putty in his hands. If he had beaten me in earnest, raising bloody welts, with the riding crop before fucking me, I would have endured it–as long as he fucked me.
He hovered over me from the side, capturing my eyes with his, his hand stroking my cock, playing with it, rubbing the sensitive glans to hear me moan, and teasing my urethra slit open until I produced precum for him. Taking his time, he slathered the precum around on my cock head and moved the moist finger to my lips, which opened for him. I licked my precum off his finger and then sucked on the finger.
I saw sucking on the finger as a precursor to taking his cock in my mouth and when he removed it, I opened my mouth to the golden medallion dangling on the chain around his neck to denote the same willingness and expectation. But he didn’t require that servicing from me. He was more interested in returning his hand to my cock and playing with that.
I was doubly aroused by being completely vulnerable to him–me naked, my body stretched out and open to him; him fully dressed other than the exposure of his staff.
“I want it raw. I don’t use condoms. Trust me,” he murmured, turning more to me and moving his left leg over my belly, placing his foot on the ground next to my thigh, asserting his dominance and the inevitability of my surrender, the futility of denying that I would allow myself to be barebacked, and bringing our throbbing cocks together. One of his hands encased our cocks and he held them side by side, his longer and thicker than mine, frotting them–rubbing and stroking them against each other.
I didn’t attempt to deny him his demand for raw sex, too far gone to resist him. Trusting him was my only choice. After that first time there, of course, was no reason to resist it ever again.
He rose over me and rubbed the head of his cock on the inner surfaces thighs, my just then realizing he had a gold bead in the head of his cock, as, until then, the head had been covered by his foreskin. The foreskin had been drawn back now, revealing a thick, purplish, angry bulb crowned by a gold bead. I shuddered and sighed in anticipation.
“Open to me. Give yourself to me,” he murmured in that mesmerizing, seductive voice of his, I spread my legs and rolled up my buttocks to receive him, wanting him inside me. Moving between my legs on his knees, he grasped my buttocks, a cheek, still flushed and tender from the flogging, palmed by each hand, and raised my pelvis to him, separating the orbs and spreading my hole open.
But not open nearly enough for comfortable entry.
I stiffened, groaned, and grunted at the breaching of my rim, and then gasped and cried out as he sank, sank, sank inside me, thick, long, demanding.
“Relax. Trust me. Relax and open to me.”
I did and the filling, stretching pumping began. The loose skin of the uncut cock silky and caressing as it slid over my passage wall, melding with the sensation of the hard, demanding, VICTORIOUS, CONQUERING shaft underneath.
* * * *
This coupling in the shepherd’s hut had been as special as the first time, surely–the count was vastly experienced in the taking of a man–but he had promised more–something dangerous, something requiring full trust. And bondage.
After we had come, though, the count held me there, both of us panting, both of us recovering. Realization crept in that he wasn’t finished. That the fuck had only been preliminary of some special main event that had caused him to bring me out where no one could hear me or save me from his demanding designs.
One of the aspects of our lovemaking that he found particularly inviting, he had told me–beyond both of us having larger than average cocks, mine in length and his both in length and thickness–was how quickly we both recovered and how much cum we both could bring up from the depths. He could take me four times in a night–within a couple of hours–and we both were as hard and produced as much cum the fourth time as the first. Mine he attributed to virility and youth; his to ancient, resilient genes. His male ancestors each had fathered a dozen or more legitimate children in as many years. Despite his proclivities, he himself had fathered six legitimately and untold numbers of bastards.
He was frotting our cocks again, and I was rising to the occasion, as was he. I anticipated another fucking, but here he began to surprise–and slightly concern me.
I watched our joined cocks as he fiddled with the head of his, changing the gold bead for something, still gold, but elongated, more of a probe, an inch and more long. When he was done, he allowed the foreskin to cover his glans again and concentrated on mine. He moved his index finger around on the cock head, causing me to tremble and groan at the feel of the skin of his finger on the sensitive skin of my glans. I instinctively moved my rump back, trying to escape his grasp, but, muttering, “Trust me. Relax. You know you like this,” he placed the palm of his other hand on the small of my back and held me there.
With a moan, I felt the sap rising in me and produced a film of precum, which he slathered around my cock head. He moved his free hand to the back of my head, dug his fingers into my blond curls, and pulled me in for a possessing kiss. Soon after the kisses started, I lurched and moaned as I felt his fingers performing rhythmic squeezing and releasing pulses on my cock bulb, causing my urethra opening–my piss slit–to open and burble precum. Still holding me captive, his pinky finger began to worry the slit, pressing it, digging inside it, flicking back inside it. I shot off a partial load.
I pulled away from the kiss and whimpered, “Oh, god, what–?”
“Shh, shh, little one. Trust me. Relax. Give yourself fully to me. You aren’t fully surrendering yet.”
What more could I do, I wondered.
I moaned as he pulled me back into the kiss and continued to pinky fuck my piss slit, bringing up more cum, which he slathered around on my cock head with the other fingers.
“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck!” I cried out to the empty landscape, as I felt him move the bulb of his cock to kiss mine. But now he had a probe attached to his–an inch or more long. I shuddered as he pressed this inside my urethra canal, our cocks now docked to each other and joined by the probe inside my canal, invading and possessing me even more intimately than filling my ass with his cock. I felt his foreskin close over my glans and, grasping the two cocks together in one of his hands, the count began to stroke the two cocks together.
I was being fucked in a more intimate way that I ever had been before.
“Relax. Trust me. Give in to it. Let me know when you are about to come.”
I did so, and he quickly released the cocks, lifted me up with hands grasping my waist, slammed my ass channel down on his cock, and creamed me deep. I shot my load up his hairy belly again.
He pulled me into his body and kissed me on the lips and on the throat, as I lay in his grasp, trembling and whimpering.
“Have you ever been fucked that way before?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, my voice tremulous.
“I was first.” I could hear the pride and sense of power in his voice.
“But . . . is . . . is that it?” I whispered when I could catch my breath.
“No, there is more. Trust me. Don’t fight it. The pleasure with be excruciating. But you must give yourself completely to me . . . trust me.”
Excruciating was more in the sense of pain than pleasure, I thought. But this man had taken me to untold heights of pleasure. The fucking of my cock had been more pleasure than pain. And, taking away the surprise of the first time and learning to control the response to it, having a probe inside my urethra canal–and being able to manage it–opened up a whole new realm of sexual stimulation and pleasure to me.
It wasn’t long before he was ready to commence again. He had a black, leather-covered case that he had brought into the hut with him and placed beside us. I, of course, had wondered but it was. Now I knew as he opened it. I started to object, but he overrode me.
“Hush. Trust me. The cock probe and docking fuck brought you pleasure, didn’t it? We have to be more careful with this, but this provides the height of sexual stimulation. This is special.”
I watched him disconnect the gold probe from his glans and look inside the leather case beside him. He picked out a slim silver metal sounding probe of maybe five inches.
“No, please,” I whimpered.
“Trust me. Watch. It can bring such pleasure. It connects the fuck with the production and rising of cum as nothing else can. You took the probe. Your cock is long, as is mine. Together we can take anything in this case.”
I whimpered another objection, which he ignored.
I leaned back and watched in a mix of horror and fascination as he slowly twirled the end of sounding rod down into his urethra slit, burying a good two and a half inches of it before he stopped.
“Now you, lean forward,” he commanded in the mesmerizing “he who is to be obeyed” voice.
“No, please,” I whimpered.
“Lean forward. Trust me. Give yourself to me. Become one with me. Come in tune with the root of your sexuality. Join with me in one of the most intimate acts of trust.”
Still whimpering, I leaned forward, and he cupped my cock, grasping it firmly with one hand, moving my cock head into position. He used the fingers of his other hand to squeeze the piss slit open, positioned the other end of the sounding rod that was buried in his cock at the opening, and pulled my cock into it, impaling my urethra canal on the end of the rod.
“Oh, god, oh, fuck,” I murmured, beginning to tear up and trembling. Over two inches. The probe hadn’t gone in that far. He pulled my cock farther onto the rod, and I shuddered. “Please, please,” I whimpered.
“Relax. This is delicate. You’ll have an orgasm such as you never have had before. Just trust me and give yourself to me.”
I allowed myself to relax. But I didn’t want to watch this. I slowly arched back, turning my head to the view outside the door of the hut, to the bucolic rolling hills of Tuscany.
I felt it all. I felt the two cockheads touch and kiss, the two docked and both of them impaled equally on the sounding wand. I felt his foreskin close over my glans, and I felt his hand cover the cocks where they met and begin to slowly stroke them, causing the sounding rod to move in and out of my urethra canal–and, presumably, his as well. His other hand was gripping my ball sac, rolling, distending, and teasing the balls, helping with the rise of the cum. By concentrating on my balls and the canal leading up from the sack to the tip of my cock, I could focus on the gathering of the sap and the slow rising of it up the canal. I became one with the fundamental sensuality of the building of an orgasm–with the knowledge that I was intimately connected with another man experiencing the same sensations.
I murmured my approaching orgasm and he assured me that he was waiting for me and we would come together.
As I felt it boiling up to the surface, I gave a cry, rose up and buried my face in the hollow of the count’s throat and bit into him as we both jerked and shot off prodigious gobs of cum, mingling inside his enclosing foreskin, burbling out of his rim.
In exhaustion, I fell back, panting heavily, moaning deeply. I could hear myself purring. I had trusted him and he had come through. That was incredible.
“We can come together like that each time,” he whispered. “Trust me and I can take you to paradise each time.”
Each time?
I heard the tinkle of metal on metal and turned my eyes toward where the count was dipping his hand into the leather case, replacing the five-inch sounding wand. His hand fumbled around in the case, coming up with what looked like eight inches of silver wand that was thicker than the one he had put back.
The mutual orgasm from a shared eight-inch docking sounding was even more incredible.
We rested, in place, but it wasn’t long before he pulled a thicker, ten-inch sounding wand from the leather case.
I moaned and panted harder. But I didn’t care. I wanted it. I trusted him. “Unbind me,” I called out. “Make the trust complete. Do whatever you want with me, but the trust must go both ways.”
Smiling his pleasure, he put the sounding wand down–if only temporarily–and moved to both free me and bind me fully to his trust.
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