Gay Erotic Stories

Angelo didn’t mind. He was doing this mostly because he liked it, although the little bit that the café owner, Maria, paid him plus the occasional tip from a tourist were welcome supplements to his income. Angelo was a fisherman, sailing out alone in his small boat six mornings a week, casting his net, and, by twilight bringing his catch, meager as it usually was, to the fish markets on the pier in the small harbor of Positano. This picturesque village closely climbed the steep slopes from the Mediterranean of the surrounding mountains that paralleled Italy’s eastern coast west along a rugged coastline from Salerno.

And this was all just temporary for Angelo, including the fishing with the boat he had inherited from his father who had inherited it from his own father. Angelo would be going to America at the first opportunity—to maybe be in the movies. That was his dream. And Angelo was a dreamer.

And not just a dreamer. Angelo was also seen as a dream by the women of Positano and by not a few men of the village as well. He had dark, sultry, movie star looks. And perhaps that was what had set off his dream of going to America. For as long as he could remember, people were telling him that, with his looks, he should be in Hollywood—or at least in Rome.

What had suddenly made Angelo tense in playing his café set and had upset his world was Guido, another young fisherman who had been in playful competition with Angelo in casting the nets off the Positano shore for a couple of years. Guido was sitting at the bar, nursing as few drinks as possible for Maria to let him occupy a barstool and smoke cigarette after cigarette, as he had done nearly every evening that Angelo had played. Guido was also dark and sultry, and very well put together. He just was two steps behind Angelo in every department of desirability and had known he was since the two were boys. Hence—at least Angelo had thought—the friendly competition and why Guido always seemed to be there, somewhere, in the background wherever Angelo was. Of course Positano was not a large town, so—other than the looks of wanted, combined with envy, Guido gave Angelo—there wasn’t much to be remarked that they were always somewhere in proximity of one another.

It had been what Guido had asked Angelo to do the evening before after Angelo had finished his set that had changed Angelo’s world, made him nervous in the close-scrutiny nearness of Guido, and made Angelo rethink why Guido was always hovering around.

Guido had asked—no begged—Angelo to fuck him, saying that he had wanted this ever since the two were in school together.

Angelo hadn’t, in a million years, caught Guido’s attention to him as signaling any such desire.

He had refused, of course, as gently as he could. He had told Guido that there was no chance that he could be a friend to Guido in that way. What he didn’t tell Guido was why. Guido had made it quite clear that he wanted Angelo inside him. But to the extent that Angelo had ever thought of having sex with another man—which had, in fact, crossed his mind, sometimes in ways that disturbed him and had, thus far, caused him to hold himself above having sex with anyone, man or woman—those thoughts had been him in the same position of need and want as Guido had declared he suffered and wanted Angelo to deliver him from. If Angelo was ever to have sex with a man, he wanted the other man inside him.

But Guido, although he had done no more than to show and express regret, had not taken Angelo’s answer as a “forever no.” He had simply asked Angelo to think about it. And here he was, tonight, sitting in his customary place at the bar, fully attentive to and ever smiling upon Angelo. The difference now was the Angelo now knew what Guido wanted—and it wasn’t just the continuance of a friendship of two young men who had grown up together in a small seaside town and who both went to sea as fishermen in boats handed down to them by their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.

Guido’s attentive smile now bored into Angelo as he played. And it wasn’t just Guido this evening. Often tourists came in to the café, having heard him play his guitar and sing, and sat watching him. A good many of them would want to watch Angelo even if he didn’t do anything but exist as the beauty in form that he was.

And sometimes the foreign residents of the town—people who weren’t passing tourists and may even have been here for decades but who were still considered foreign visitors in one way or another because they hadn’t been born and raised in Positano—came to the café, having heard about Angelo and both his beauty and his music. Some of these were, in fact, foreigners. Some of the wealthiest people in the town—and who were treated with distant respect because of the revenue they brought to the region—were actually foreigners. There was a whole enclave of them to the south of the town, living in villas along the coats and beyond the mountain spur that went down to the sea there and defined the edge of the town. Villas were strung along the coast to the south, perched on the rocky slopes of the mountains and with steps down to small, private beaches below, each separated from the neighboring villa by rock formations tumbling down to the sea.

It was off these beaches that Angelo did most of his fishing, both because the fish ran well there and because Angelo enjoyed watching the activity in the villas of the rich foreigners through his binoculars. And some of the foreigners, aware of Angelo’s frequent fishing visits off their coast also watched him move, in his skimpy loincloth bathing suit around his fishing vessel.

Angelo like to watch because often the villa owners and their young guests came down to their private beaches in the nude. And sometimes they fucked on the beach. Angelo enjoyed watching this, no matter what the mix was in the coupling of the sexes.

That’s why Angelo knew who the two men at the table who were scrutinizing him as closely at Guido—and causing him as much embarrassment—were. The older man owned one of the largest villas perched above the sea, one with extensive verandas and frequently with young, very good looking and well-muscled men roaming around in very little. Angelo already knew the older man to be Doran Kokinos, a grossly wealthy Greek shipping magnate, who spent several months a year in his Positano coast villa. The man was in his late fifties at least and, though solidly built and well-muscled, was squat and a bit rotund and extremely hirsute with salt-and-pepper hair. His features all were thickish and slightly piggish, and he glowered more than looked at whatever caught his attention, under bushy eyebrows. But he had impeccable taste in young men, and he fucked them well on the beach.

Angelo knew Kokinos fucked men—and young men—because Angelo had, through his binoculars, spied him doing so from time to time on his terraces or down on the beach. And Angelo’s binoculars were high powered enough for Angelo to know that what Kokinos lacked in body beauty, he made up for in cock girth and length.

Kokinos had been in the café for hours this evening, the first time Angelo had known him to be there, and his glower had been trained on Angelo, piercing his composure during both of Angelo’s musical sets. What occurred to Angelo, though, and that had deepened his embarrassment and apprehension, was that perhaps this wasn’t the first visit of Doran Kokinos to the café. Perhaps he had been here before and perhaps before he had trained his attention on Angelo just as he had done this evening—and Angelo, in his innocence, had just not caught what was in the air. Perhaps the single, simple declaration by Guido the previous evening had awakened Angelo to a reality that had, in his innocence, not been part of his real world before—but inevitably was part of that world now.

And when Angelo thought upon that, the image of that cock of Kokinos’s sinking in and withdrawing from and then sinking in again the ass of the young prey of the day on the beach below his villa gave Angelo a chill of envy. The man’s ugliness in other ways seemed only to add to the mystery and fantasy of Angelo’s sexual longings.

To his added embarrassment, Angelo, in turn, had had to struggle not to give his undivided attention this evening to Kokinos’s table companion. The man was younger than Kokinos—by far—but older than Angelo’s own barely twenty years. The man struck Angelo as an American—a blond, athletic American. Perhaps it was the apparent openness of him and the ready smile. Whatever it was, he had charisma and an assurance about himself that was justified by his rugged good looks. Now there, Angelo had thought, when he first noticed the young man—noticed him noticing Angelo—is a true Hollywood movie star type.

Angelo couldn’t remember having ever seen him with his binoculars, and that thought had set off another thought that he wondered what the man looked like in the altogether or in a skimpy Speedo, a thought that had made Angelo forget what song he was singing at the time and made him stop, apologize, blame it on being thirsty, taken a swig of his water, and then start of a song that may have been the same one he had stumbled on but again may not have been for all the attention he was giving it.

Angelo was distressed at the longings that Guido had loosed in him the previous day by openly talking of sex between men. Angelo had mostly been able to suppress his thinking—at least consciously—of these things to this point. Guido had unleashed that monster from the cave Angelo had locked it in.

In that patron-, raucous discussion-, and smoke-filled café room, with patrons tumbling out onto the tables set up at the edge of the narrow, cobblestoned, winding street, Angelo had struggled through two sets feeling that he was pinned to the wall by three sets of eyes—Guido’s, Doran Kokinos’s, and the mysterious, mesmerizing blond. This was the first time he’d ever felt like this. And, in his imagination, Angelo was lying under each of the men, his hips rotating, and something throbbing and thrusting stretching his insides.

And it was all Guido’s fault.

Forcing himself not to look at any of the three when his set was over, Angelo put his guitar in the stand next to his stool, where it would still be the next time he came to the café to play and sing, and turned to go through the door behind him covered by a beaded curtain that led through a corridor to the kitchen on one side, bathrooms on the other, a storeroom and Maria’s office and then to an exit that hovered ten feet above the street below the one the café was located on. Descending the rickety wooden staircase there would put Angelo just one street above his own, where he had two rooms and a kitchenette and bathroom at the top of the building he had inherited and where the rent from the two floors below his made his life as comfortable as most any other resident of Positano.

He was just beyond the doors to the rest rooms, however, when Guido caught up to him, swung him around and pinned his back to the wall with his body. Guido was slightly taller and heavier than Angelo, and he was just as strong. Caught by surprise, Angelo was slow to react with any sense of defensiveness.

“Please, Angelo. Take me to your rooms. Or come with me to mine. I can’t deny my want for you any longer.”

“Guido, no. I can’t. I told you yester—”

Angelo wasn’t able to finish the sentence, as Guido was pressing at his lips with his own and crushing him against the wall. One of Guido’s hands was pressing on Angelo’s crotch.

Caught completely by surprise, Angelo was slow to react. He was looking around wildly, not knowing why he was here like this, why Guido was in such a frenzy, or what he should do next. His eyes caught the movement of the beaded curtain separating the back corridor from the main café room, and he saw movement there. A man. The blond man Angelo thought of as the suave American.

The expression on the American’s face was one of surprise. But then it turned to an amused smile, and, rather than withdrawing, the man stood there, watching.

Adrenalin finally surged through Angelo’s body, and he broke away from Guido with a, “We can’t . . . I can’t . . . sorry,” and he rushed through the door at the end of the corridor and almost lost his footing on the precarious wooden steps of the staircase down to the lower street.

Once in his room, he turned off his lights and moved out onto the small terrace he had that overlooked the Mediterranean and the lower town as it cascaded down to the harbor. He stood, watching the moonlight on the sea for several moments, trembling and overwhelmed by the strange, unfamiliar sensations accosting him. He was surprised—and embarrassed—to realize that he was hard.

He stripped off his trousers, briefs, and T-shirt and laid down on the chaise lounge on the terrace, and, as he looked up at the bright constellations in the clear night sky, he began to masturbate. What was this terrible—but perhaps glorious—monster that Guido had awakened in him? He had no idea, and his emotions were conflicted. As he slowly and rhythmically beat himself off, though, he realized that an image of a man was floating in his brain and feeding his arousal. It wasn’t Guido, though. It was the image of that smiling all-American blond, standing, naked, in the doorway at the café, the beads of the curtain caressing his body, as he watched Angelo masturbating—and stroked his own hard cock with a loose fist.

A second image swam up. An ugly face and a squat but solid body. And much black curly hair. But an air of authority—and a bit of cruelty—and an invading monstrous cock that had Angelo panting and whimpering of how filling it was. As the mastering cock in Angelo’s fantasy began to pump his channel, he threw his head back, ejaculated onto his stomach, and muttered the name Doran Kokinos.

Instead of giving him the lift he expected, these fantasies brought a sourness to Angelo’s mood. This was wrong. He wanted to think of lying under a beautiful man like the blond American or even Guido—before Guido had burst that bubble and revealed himself as a receiver rather than a driver—not one who was old and ugly such as Kokinos. Did the aura of authority or the size of the cock really make that much difference? And, even if the cock was all important, he had not seen what the blond American had to offer.

* * * *

“Are you just going to leave me down here, or will you give me a hand up?”

Angelo looked around in shock, not seeing where the voice was coming from, complete nonplused to hear a voice at all. He was on his fishing boat, all alone, or so he thought, off the beaches below the villas of the rich foreigners strung along the Amalfi coast south of Postiano.

He had set his nets and then gone to the stern of the boat with his binoculars and scanned the beaches and the villas perched on the side of the mountains above as he liked to do. He told himself that he hadn’t stationed the boat off of Doran Kokinos’s villa on purpose, but, of course, he had. And in doing so, he had been rewarded.

Not long after taking up his station, he had seen activity on one of the villa’s terraces and then the figure of a tall, well-built—and very well-equipped, he could see, because the man was naked—young man descending the stone steps between the villa and the beach. He had a beach towel over one arm and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

To Angelo’s great interest, the young man engaged in a few aerobic exercises while standing next to the towel that he had unfurled on the beach in front of a sky-blue cabana tent.

After a few moments of surreptitious work with the binoculars, Angelo ascertained that It was the same blond man Angelo had seen at the café, sitting with Doran Kokinos, the previous evening.

Angelo laid down flat on his belly at the stern of the boat, with just the lens of the binoculars showing above the gunwales and watched the blond, who he thought of as “the American,” do his calisthenics. The rough wood of the boat hull punished Angelo’s bare chest, but unheeding of that, he unbuttoned the fly of his skimpy shorts, pulled out his hardening cock, encircled the staff with the hand that wasn’t holding the binoculars, and moved his hips, letting the head of his cock rub across the pile of the netting in the bottom of the boat.

When the blond man turned and went into the cabana tent, Angelo realized that he should have pulled in his nets some time ago to see if he’d caught any fish and then set them again. It took him nearly a half an hour to do that, and he had just finished when he heard the voice.

“I say, you going to leave me just hanging onto the side?”

Angelo raced back to the stern of the boat. Two well-muscled, lightly tanned arms, emerging from the water next to the boat, were slung over the gunwales. He grabbed for the arms and helped the blond American climb on board the boat. He was naked and wet, but he had the canvas bag slung over his back by a string around his neck.

Both the surprise of his arrival and the beauty of his body took Angelo’s breath away.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a dry towel, would you?” he asked in broken Italian.

“Yes. Yes, I have. Just a minute,” Angelo stammered.

“You speak English,” the blond said, sounding quite relieved.

“I take in school. I go to America some day and I want to speak good American. You American?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, I’m American. And I’m shuddering from the cold water at the moment. It’s a longer swim than I anticipated.”

“Uh,” Angelo muttered, still dumbfounded by the man’s appearance and by the casual, comfortable attitude he was taking despite his nudity.

“The towel? You were going to find me a towel?”

“Yes, of course,” Angelo stammered, as he back peddled toward the small cabin at the center of the boat.

When he came back, the American was still standing there, in a provocative pose, but he’d opened the canvas bag and extracted a bottle of liquor and a couple of plastic glasses. “I hope you don’t mind Johnny Walker Red. It was the most ready at hand in Dodo’s bar.”

“Dodo?”

“Doran Kokinos. I believe you saw us at the café last night. He was very impressed with you. In fact, he’d like to meet you. I call him Dodo. For some reason he prefers that. He’s Greek, you know. He probably doesn’t know the connotation of that in the States. It does seem to suit him. But here I am, running on, and you’re probably very thirsty from all of the fishing work you’ve been doing—not to mention the work with the binoculars.”

Angelo had barely been able to keep up with what the American had been saying. He had no trouble understanding the part about binoculars, though, and he blushed from the realization he’d been caught as a voyeur. And he was even more nonplused to see that the American was hard and not seeming to be the least self-conscious about it.

And, yes, he knew Johnny Walker well, although he’d rarely been able to cage more than a couple of shots of it himself. The foreigners had it shipped in by the case during the Christmas season and handed bottles of it out as gratuities for those in the village who had supported their lifestyle with goods and services throughout the year. For two weeks after Christmas, in the new year, the Johnny Walker red became the gold standard of Positano and was filtered down in smaller bottles throughout the fabric of the town—until it was all gone until the next year. Angelo rarely got more than two shots of it himself in a year. And here the American—the beautifully built and handsome American of the open, broad smile—was offering to share an entire bottle with him.

“So, shall we drink and share sea stories?”

“Yes, if you wish,” Angelo said shyly, trying not to look at the American’s magnificent cock, but not being able to take his eyes away.

“Good. We talk and become better acquainted. I know that your name is Angelo. Mine is Brett. We drink . . . and talk . . . and then we fuck.”

Angelo did a double-take and his jaw dropped to his chest. But the American did seem to notice or skip a beat.

“I’ll fuck you, if you don’t mind—unless you insist otherwise. Then we can go up to the house and you can meet Doran. He wants to fuck you too. Anyone ever tell you that you had a friggin’ beautiful body and smile? You could be in movies.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry. I can’t. I don’t . . . I never. I will take you back to the beach in my small boat.” Angelo had turned red in a blush and, without effort, taken on a crestfallen look that the American, Brett, couldn’t help but understand as genuine surprise, consternation—and regret.

It was, perhaps the note of regret that helped Brett to brazen it through. “Sorry, dude, my mistake. I assumed when I saw you making out with the other guy last night—”

“We . . . weren’t, how you put it, making out. Guido wants something I can’t give him. It was nothing. You just saw a minute of mistake. Sorry. I take you back.”

“No, I’m the one who is sorry. But you can’t blame me for trying, and you looked like you were interested enough. And I say we don’t burden your small boat with this bottle of Johnny Walker. Let’s go ahead and polish it off as long as we’re here. What do you say? And about that chap last night. You can’t give him what he wants because he wants to be fucked? You know what that should mean to me, don’t you?”

“You are confusing me. I don’t know what it should mean.”

“Well, then, let’s back up a bit. Would you like to help me with this bottle of Johnny Walker or not?”

“Well . . . OK.”

* * * *

“Do you trust me?” It came in a whisper, but it shot through Angelo’s brain like an electric jolt. “Trust me to treat you right. Let me fuck you.” The strike of awakening from the follow-up was even stronger than the first.

The empty liquor bottle was rolling around in the stern of the boat, moving from one side to the other with a tinkling sound as the waves gently rocked the boat. The two plastic glasses were closer to hand in the bow where the two men were stretched out against each other on a pile of netting. The glasses made more of a clunking sound as they rolled against the gunwales.

The bottle had been three-quarters empty, with Angelo doing most of the drinking, before Brett had put and arm around the young Italian’s shoulders and pulled him in close. Angelo couldn’t remember—or say—when or why he had let the American kiss him. All he could have said that it was both sweet and hot in comparison to the one Guido had stolen from him the previous evening.

After that first kiss, Angelo lost count and hardly even noticed when Brett had moved a hand into the unbuttoned fly of the shorts that Angelo had unbuttoned himself some time earlier when he was watching the American on the beach with the binoculars—and forgotten to do up again.

Angelo had whimpered something about it being wrong and that he didn’t do such things—had never done them before—when Brett had taken possession of his embarrassingly hard cock and had mentioned something about trust that first time.

“But you’re not saying that you don’t want to do them,” Brett had countered in a matter-of-fact voice. Angelo had said nothing to this.

The American had urged the last of the bottle of Johnny Walker on Angelo and then had taken the young Italian to heaven with a slow hand job that Angelo had objected to with his voice—but only with his voice. His hips had a mind of their own and it wasn’t long until, with a low laugh, the American loosened his grip on the cock, and Angelo moved his hips, fucking himself to ejaculation in the encasing hand.

The bottle finished, and Angelo panting and whimpering, putting up some semblance of a struggle that was a stronger one in his mind than in reality, Brett had lowered himself to stretch on the netting in the bow of the boat and brought Angelo down to cuddle on top of him with the young man’s shoulder blades against Brett’s chest.

Angelo’s visual world was revolving in a motion that went with the gentle swaying of the boat, his ears were ringing, his thoughts were sluggish in forming, and he was moaning quietly as Brett’s hands roamed over his body.

“Trust me. I will be good to you. God, you have a beautiful body,” Brett was murmuring.

Angelo could feel the man’s insistent hard cock rubbing up the small of his back.

“Let me inside you. I will fuck you to heaven.”

The American’s hands had moved to the waistline of Angelo’s shorts, which, miraculous, still rode his hips. He pushed the shorts down a bit, and Angelo objected weakly. A hand went under the waist of the shorts and along the curve of Angelo’s butt cheek, moving toward, and then to, the rim of his entrance.

“You say you’ve never been fucked before? Yes, it feels tight. But it will open for me. I will do you right.”

Angelo moaned and reached around and grabbed the American’s hand through the thin material of his shorts. Not even he was sure if he had done so to try to force the hand away or to hold it there.

But then, again with a low laugh, the American was pushing Angelo’s shorts down off his hips.

“Do you trust me? Trust me to treat you right. Let me fuck you. Roll onto your stomach. Let’s get these shorts off. I’m going to fuck you.”

Gathering all of his strength, Angelo pulled himself out of the American’s embrace and went, first, up on his knees. And then up into a crouch. He looked down into the face of the American with an expression of torment and consternation. “Sorry. I can’t . . . I don’t . . . Just sorry. It is too much.”

Bret turned on his back and locked his fists behind his head, stretching out to put his musculature at its most compelling. His hard cock stood straight up from his neatly trimmed groin. A beatific smile was planted across his face. If he was angry or frustrated, it didn’t show.

“Well, if you can’t you can’t. But I gave you a hand job. Perhaps you could return the favor?”

Angelo’s expression was one of regret and instead of kneeling back down, he stood up and backed up a step toward the door into the cabin. “It isn’t right . . . this isn’t me. But I thank you for the Johnny Walker.”

“I think it is you, dear boy,” Brett answered. “Although,” he followed with a sigh, “Perhaps it isn’t you on this particular day. Too bad about the hand job, though. It could have moved on to something wonderful.” He moved to stand up, and as he did so, Angelo retreated to the cabin doorway.

“Give me a minute and I’ll take you back to the beach in the small boat,” he said, and then he pulled himself into the cabin. There wasn’t anything he really had to do in there; he just needed to be separated from the temptation long enough to gather his wits and his resolve.

The realization that the man really did intend to put his cock inside him had pulled Angelo out of the drunken stupor—but only enough for him to realize that he was no match for the charm, assurance, and power of the American. He didn’t know what he’d say or do when he came out of the cabin. Chances were good, he knew, that he would lay down on the netting and open his legs to the American. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay in the cabin; he had to go out on deck.

But if he went back out on deck it would be admitting that he wanted the American to fuck him. It was all so confusing. Why couldn’t he admit to what he knew he wanted to do?

He went back out on deck. The American was gone. Angelo went to the bow of the boat and could see the bobbing head of the man as he swam his way back toward the beach.

With mixed feelings, Angelo quickly took in his nets and dumped the wriggling fish down into the hold of the boat. Then he took the boat out to sea—not north toward Positano, but directly out to sea to where he knew he’d be alone.

He was hard and throbbing throughout this time, and when he was safely away from the land, he stripped off his shorts, stretched out on the netting at the bow, made an opening down through the netting for his dick to slide into, and fucked the netting to his relief, all the time imagining what the gorgeous American hunk could have done with him.

* * * *

Angelo remained on the boat that night, bobbing back and forth out at the edge of the Positano harbor. His face was turned to the lights of the town, climbing the ring of mountains surrounding it on the three sides not taken by the waters of the harbor, without being aware of the beauty of setting. he was scrunched down in the stern of the boat, resting on a netting coil, almost in a fetal position, and trying to make sense of his life and, more important, of his desires and what, essentially, he was.

He still hadn’t decided what he wanted out of life—or rather he had, and the prospect of it frightened him—when the rays of the sun were beginning to lighten the sky to the west, behind the mountain tops. Almost on autopilot, though, he began to prepare for the needs of the day. He motored back into the pier only long enough to offload his scanty catch from the interrupted previous day and then he was chugging back out of the harbor. He turned the boat north this morning, not wanting to be seen again—at least so soon—off the villas to the south. He told himself that it was because he never intended to go there again, but, in reality, he just didn’t want to exhibit eagerness for what he had rejected the previous day.

As the boat slowly cut through the waves, he checked his nets for rips, grabbed a bite to eat from what he had gotten at a food stall when he’d offloaded the previous day’s catch, and turned his face north. He knew it would be a short fishing day, because he was near exhaustion and had two sets to play at the café that evening. He would need to be back by early afternoon so that he could clean himself and catch a few hours of sleep before nightfall.

Angelo had trouble sleeping that afternoon, even though he was dog tired. He couldn’t help think about the blond American, Brett—and wondering—no, hoping, if he was honest—that the man would be at the café that evening. If he was there alone, without the older man, Doran Kokinos, maybe Angelo would try to talk with him, would maybe tease him a bit, make him think that Angelo would go with him and then back off. But then maybe changing his mind and doing what he knew he wanted to do. He would do nothing if the Greek was there, though. He scared Angelo more than a bit, especially because Angelo was attracted to him too. The American had been so forward the previous day, and, in hindsight, Angelo knew exactly what the liquor was for—and what it had caused. The American was so casual and nonchalant about the whole thing. Taking Angelo for granted and thereby showing a lot of conceit. Angelo thought he might get a bit of his own back, do a little bit of teasing, and when the American’s tongue was hanging out, just walk off.

Then maybe they’d be on equal ground and could start anew. Then maybe Angelo would be ready to take the plunge. Or could consider again doing so.

The American indeed was there when Angelo arrived at the café just before he was scheduled to go on for his first set. And the older Greek man wasn’t there. But Guido was. The American, Brett, and Guido were at the same table the American and the Greek had been at a couple of evenings before. And Guido looked oh so proud of himself. Just like he’d already gotten satisfaction for someone else that he had begged from Angelo and not gotten.

This didn’t exactly make Angelo feel relieved. He tried to remember if he’s seen Guido out in his fishing boat that day. But he couldn’t remember seeing the boat in the harbor, and Guido always went south to do his fishing. Angelo almost always went south too, but today he’d gone north, so it wasn’t unusual that he couldn’t remember having seen Guido out in his boat.

They weren’t touching or anything, and the American had his eyes on Angelo during the whole set, but Guido had changed. He now had his eyes on the American rather than on Angelo. And Angelo couldn’t really tell by the end of the set that no touching was going on. The American kept his hands above the table, but Angelo couldn’t have sworn that Guido hadn’t put his hands on the American’s forearm or thigh a time or two while Angelo sang.

The American had already fucked Guido. Angelo was sure of that, and the knowledge disturbed him, even though he knew it shouldn’t have.

Angelo had to take a piss after his first set. He was only gone briefly, having intended to watch the pair from behind the beaded curtain separating the back rooms from the main one before his next set began. But the two were gone when Angelo came back to do his second set.

He knew he didn’t play and sing too well for the second set. He was stewing over what he was missing out on—and that perhaps Guido was not—and still arguing with himself over what he wanted.

He must not have done too badly in the set and must have conveyed his sense of both melancholy and sensuality, but a tourist followed him out of the café when he’d packed up and left and asked to give him a blow job—and maybe more. Angelo just gestured in such a way to hold off the man, shook his head, and walked on. He was still struggling with himself about whether this was something he wanted. He did know, however, that he didn’t want it from this tourist. If he wanted it, he wanted it from the brash, arrogant, and superconfident blond American, Brett. And then, perhaps more dangerously, from Doran Kokinos.

The next morning Angelo took the fishing boat out he had intended to go north again. But as he was preparing his boat for launch, he saw that Guido’s boat was still in the harbor. This, in itself, was not unusual or a surprise—Guido was not an early riser by preference; by preference he was someone who stumbled down to the harbor in the midmorning with a bad hangover—but it was perplexing to Angelo nonetheless. He was still mulling over the possibilities when it seemed that the boat turned itself south—and then positioned itself off Doran Kokinos’s villa.

Angelo purposely didn’t look at the beach as he cast his nets off both sides of his boat. But he no longer could pretend to himself that he wasn’t interested, and he turned his eyes toward land. He could see a figure on the beach—possibly more than one. He scrambled to find his binoculars and, when he did, lowered himself in the stern of his boat, with only his face peeking over the gunwale, and put the binoculars to his eyes.

It wasn’t one; it was two. And they were joined. Guido was standing on a large beach rug, facing the sea and bent over at the waist. The American, Brett, was standing close behind him, with his hands on Guido’s hips. Angelo knew what they were doing—but he denied it to himself, reasoning that they may be fucking, but there was no way to be sure.

Almost as if they wanted Angelo to be sure, though, Brett stood back and Guido went down on the blanket, feet facing the sea. Brett knelt between Guido’s spread legs, raised and spread further Guido’s legs with hands grabbing the young Italian’s ankles, and crouched over him. The coordinated movement of the two left no doubt in Angelo’s mind that the American was fucking Guido. The writhing movement of Guido’s body clearly told Angelo that Guido was enjoying it—and was getting vigorous attention.

They fucked like long-term lovers.

Mouthing a cascade of choice Italian profanity, Angelo pulled his nets back into the boat as quickly as he could—swearing in earnest when he saw that he’d caught some fish that would need to be swept into the hold before he folded the nets. But as quickly as he could, he had stowed the fish and nets and was chugging his boat back to sea—toward the north, where, he admonished himself, he should have headed to begin with this morning.

* * * *

On the next day Angelo fished to the north, and although it was not his evening to play at the café, he traded with the woman who usually sang that night and did his two sets. The American, Brett, didn’t show up. Neither did the Greek shipping magnate, Doran Kokinos, or Guido, for that matter.

The following day, Angelo’s boat went south, almost on its own volition, without Angelo willing it to do that. Guido’s boat was still in the harbor when he left—as it had been the previous morning and in the afternoon when Angelo returned to Positano. The fishing had been very good, but Angelo hardly noticed that. His mind was completely elsewhere.

That night, when Angelo came from the back of the café to play his second set, the American was sitting at a table well removed from the small platform on which the musicians performed.

One of the waiters, a saucy, flirty little thing named Luciano, who Angelo had always thought was much too flamboyant in manner but who the solitary men tourists of a certain aspect seemed to appreciate, hovered around Brett’s table. While Angelo was playing—although he was so tense and frustrated that he hardly knew what he was playing and singing—Brett pulled Luciano down into his lap for a few minutes, and Luciano squealed and pretended to be much flustered. But that little demonstration didn’t last for all. All of the time he was manhandling Luciano playfully, the American was staring at Angelo.

After the set was over, Angelo came into the audience and sat down at the American’s table.

“You came to the café,” Angelo said, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say, but the American didn’t seem at all concerned about opening the conversation.

“Yes, I couldn’t stay away.”

“The coffee is the best here for coming out at night.”

“I wouldn’t know. I came for the music.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t sing and play well tonight,” Angelo said. “I was thinking. I’ve had quite a bit to think about.”

“You sang like an angel—as always. I hope you were thinking of me fucking you. That’s what I’ve been thinking of.”

“You were thinking of fucking me when you were fucking Guido?” Angelo said, accusingly.

“Yes,” Brett answered straight away. “I wanted to fuck you and you didn’t let me.”

Angelo looked away. He couldn’t look the American in the eye. After a brief pause, he just shrugged.

“Now you want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Brett said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “You came back to see if I would swim out to you again and you found me fucking your friend, Guido. Now you want me to fuck you on the beach like I was fucking Guido, don’t you?”

Angelo just kept looking away and shrugged again. Brett had a hand on his crotch under the surface of the table. Angelo made no attempt to make him move it.

After a long minute, Angelo spoke. “There is a grotto—a cave—down near the water’s edge at the rock outcropping marking the northern edge of the property you are staying at. Did you know that?”

“No, I did not. Is that a place you would like to show me?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“It’s nighttime now. It’s dark out”

“There are lanterns at the top of the steps down to the beach. My car is not far from here. I have a blanket in the trunk. And here, see, I have condoms in my pocket. What else do we need? And if the lanterns don’t work, I can fuck in the dark.”

“I have never . . .”

“I can be gentle. I will teach you. You know you want me to fuck you. You must trust me. Do you trust me?”

The American was only gentle at first, but once they were deep into the fuck, Angelo didn’t care, and Brett was too intensely into it to care either.

The American stopped his car in the driving court of the villa and they kissed there. They also unzipped each other there and each stroked the other’s cock, and Angelo gave no objection when Brett leaned back in the seat and moved Angelo’s face to his lap.

“You’d best show me that grotto now,” Brett said in a hoarse voice after they’d been sitting in the car for twenty minutes.

“On your hands and knees on the blanket,” Brett had said when they’d entered the grotto and he had spread the blanket nearly to the edge of the tidal pool they had had to slither past to get to the rear, sandy-bottomed portion of the cave. He’d put the lantern down on the edge of the pool, and the reflected light on the water of the pool bounced off the uneven ceiling of the cave, sending undulating waves of blue around the small grotto. “You may rest your chest on the blanket, but keep your ass raised. Yes, like that.”

He spent some time initially crouched behind Angelo, with an arm wrapped around his waist and palming his flat belly, while his other hand snaked between Angelo’s thighs and milked his cock and pulled on and fondled his balls. The American’s tongue mined Angelo’s entrance, loosening and opening it to him. Angelo moaned and groaned at the attention in a volume that increased when Brett moved his mouth from the entrance to swallow Angelo’s cock, which had been pulled back between his legs. Angelo’s virginal cries of being sucked by a man for the first time reverberated around the small cave.

Angelo came down the American’s throat, and started to collapse onto his stomach. But Brett held him in position with the hand palming his belly. The blond gave a low, guttural laugh. “No, this is the right position for your first time. You will be open, and I can fuck you deep. I will take you for a walk on the clouds now. God, you’ve got a beautiful body. And you taste sweet.”

The American rose and covered Angelo’s body close from behind in a crouch. Angelo cried out and writhed as the cock slowly entered him. And withdraw a bit and then invaded farther. Out and in farther.

“Shit. I don’t think I can . . .” Angelo pleaded.

“Shush, shush, we’re taking it slow. You’re so tight. You didn’t lie. So tight and so, so sweet.”

Angelo whimpered and said that perhaps they should . . . “Oh shit, oh Fuck!” he cried out as Brett began a slow pump. And then faster and deeper. Faster yet. Slap, slap, slap, balls hitting balls. Angelo panting and groaning, his begging for mercy slowly transitioning into begging for more attention.

When Brett tensed and jerked, and came, they held for a moment, the American breathing hard and Angelo’s wind hissing between his clinched teeth, his body jerking periodically in a dry sob. Brett slowly turned and rolled to the ground so that he was stretched out on his side and Angelo was cuddled into his chest.

“A few minutes, and they we will make love more than sex,” Brett murmured.

Angelo wheezed his fluttering response of being overwhelmed and totally taken. After a bit, Brett raised Angelo’s leg and turned toward him, giving his cock deeper purchase. The staff was hard again.

“Do you want me again?” Brett whispered.

“Yes, oh, yes,” Angelo murmured.

Later, when Angelo was almost asleep, Brett pulled himself up—and then Angelo—and he supported Angelo with one arm and carried the lantern with the other as they mounted the steps up to the lower-level terrace.

“I’ll just be a minute,” the American said. When he came back, he was carrying four frosted bottles of Moretti beer. The two stretched out on patio chairs, naked, and watched the stars in the clear sky.

Half way through the first beer, Brett stood up from his chair and turned to where Angelo was sitting in his chair.

“I want to fuck you again,” was all the American said. He reached down and gathered up one of Angelo’s legs in each arm and raised and spread them. Angelo threw his head back and watched the stars over head and moaned, as Brett lifted his buttocks off the chair cushion, split his butt cheeks with a hard cock, and slow fucked him to a second ejaculation for the evening. Angelo clutched Brett’s butt cheeks with his hands and groaned and grunted and begged him to fuck deep and to take long strokes. When Brett was done he lowered Angelo’s body and returned to his chair and picked up his beer bottle and took another swig.

So, this is how it is, Angelo thought. How simply and natural—and satisfying it was.

Only when they were close to the end of the second beer each did Brett speak again. “You will be in my bed tonight.”

“Yes,” Angelo answered.

The beers finished, they entered the villa and Angelo followed Brett up a curved staircase of stone treads. This put them in a long hallway. Half way down the corridor, on the sea side of the house, a door was open and a soft light spread out onto the hallway floor. The two silently approached to pass by and Brett put a finger to his lips and gestured toward the open door, indicating that he wanted Angelo to see what was inside.

What was inside was a large bedroom, probably the villa’s master bedroom, well appointed in rich furnishings with a definite masculine appearance.

Sitting on the end of the bed, showing to the door to the corridor in side angle, was the Greek tycoon, Doran Kokinos. He was naked. Short and stocky, with coarse features and covered in black curly hair, he looked almost like an evil gnome. But the whole package fit together as more solid than fat, even though he tended to the rotund, and there was no questioning that the man exuded power and charisma. Sitting in his lap, leaving no doubt that his ass was skewered on the Greek’s hard phallus, was Guido, facing away from the Greek, the balls of his feet pressed into the thick carpet on the floor.

Angelo involuntarily sucked air when he saw the tableau. It wasn’t because he was shocked at seeing Guido being lap fucked by the Greek, although that, indeed, was a surprise. It was because of what was sticking out of Guido’s hard, erect cock. The end of a thin steel rod protruded from Guido’s piss slit. The Greek was holding the young man’s back to his hairy chest with one hand cupping Guido’s chin. The Greek’s other hand was manipulating the steel rod, revolving it a bit in Guido’s piss slit and slowly pushing it in and then pulling it a bit out and then back in, perhaps a little deeper than it had been before. A rolling table had been pulled up on the other side of the pair beside their legs. Angelo could see that there were other, graduated in size, steel rods arranged neatly on the table top.

Guido was trembling and whimpering, but he wasn’t objecting or trying to get away.

“It’s a very delicate procedure,” Brett whispered into Angelo’s ear from behind. “It’s incredibly sensual, but you have to hold perfectly still. The ultimate fuck. Being fucked in two holes at once.”

Angelo shuddered. Brett was standing very close behind him, encircling his torso with strong hands. The fingers of one hand thrumming one of Angelo’s nipples. “The rods are called wands,” the American whispered. “The sex act is called sounding. Have you ever seen—?”

“I’ve never . . . even . . . . heard of . . .” Angelo answered in a low, stuttering voice that Brett would barely hear and that just sort of wafted into a silence that Angelo couldn’t feel.

Guido gasped as the steel rod was completely withdrawn from his penis. Then he whimpered as the Greek’s fingers picked out one of a larger size—and gasped again as it was being slid into his slit.

“You’re hard again,” the American whispered in Angelo’s ear. “You like what you see. Maybe you want it too.”

“Noooo,” Angelo whined. But he couldn’t deny he was hard again—from watching this act that he hadn’t, in his wildest dreams—known existed. He felt Brett hard again too, at his back.

He didn’t object as the American raised his torso with hands gripping his waist and settled his channel on a hard cock again. Angelo was suspended in front of the American who crouched down a bit to keep them in balance and then begin to slowly raise and lower Angelo on his cock as they both looked into the room.

Guido was receiving the fourth graduated wand inside his piss slit, when he began to moan more loudly and to declare that he was close to coming.

Angelo did come then himself, shooting out onto the plush carpet of the bedroom. When he looked up at the bed again, Guido was burbling cum around the sides of the buried wand and down onto this thighs. The Greek extracted the last wand and placed it carefully on the tabletop. Then he rose up on his feet, forcing Guido up on his as well, and Guido just bent forward, grabbing at his ankles with his fists. Holding Guido’s hips in his hands, the Greek started to pump him from behind.

Angelo was too weak to move and would have collapsed on the floor himself if Bret wasn’t holding him at the waist. The American gathered up the Italian youth in his arms, though, and carried him off to what proved to be his own bed in his own bedroom down the hall.

* * * *

Angelo had been so hyper about how quickly and deeply he had been dropped into male-on-male sex when Brett wanted to go to sleep that the American had suggested that the Italian take a sedative that he offered. This had immediately worked and had kept Angelo so under that when he woke, he discovered he no longer was in Brett’s bed but was in a private gym of some sort, with a lot of fancy exercise equipment around. He himself was lying on his back, naked, on some sort of vinyl cube affair and Brett, also naked, was hunched over him, fiddling with some sort of band around his wrist, attaching it to a bound ankle. His ankles already were pulled back toward his waist at the side of the vinyl cube and cuffed to the side of the cube—and his buttocks were raised at the end of the cube.

“What?” Angelo mumbled, still half dazed.

“Do you trust me?” Brett asked. “You must trust me. This is for you. You said to me once that you wanted to leave here. Maybe go to America. We talked about films. Do you want opportunities?”

“Yes, but . . . why am I bound? What are you . . . ?”

Brett was attaching Angelo’s second wrist in a cuff to the cuff of the ankle already pulled back at one side of the cube.

“You want me to fuck you again don’t you?”

“Yes, please. But . . .”

“Lay there and enjoy it as well—and as vocally—as you did in the grotto. We’re being watched. You need to trust me.”

Brett disappeared from Angelo’s sight between his legs, although one of the American’s hands remained encircling the Italian’s cock and stroking it likely.

Angelo began to moan as he felt Brett’s lips and tongue start to work the rim of his hole.

“Oh, fuck. Oh shit yes. Fuck me,” Angelo was mouthing when Brett was crouched over him, his hands working Angelo’s nipples and his cock working Angelo’s ass. Angelo was moving his hips and raising and lowering them with leverage off the balls of his cuffed feet at the side of the cube to help maximize the still-engaged withdrawal and then the deep plunge of Brett’s cock inside him—again and again and again. They were working as one unit despite Angelo being held totally captive by the cuffs.

Angelo was crying out that he was about to come, when Brett stopped and held him close and motionless. “No, you’re not,” he whispered in Angelo’s ear. “Not yet. Stay with me here. This is important to you.”

After Angelo’s moment of explosion had passed without an ejaculation, Brett raised off him, although still encased in his channel, and reached over a pulled a small, rolling table toward him.

Looking over at that, Angelo’s eyes opened wide. “Nooo, pleassse,” he pleaded. He began to squirm as violently as his bounds would permit, as Brett held his hard cock firmly and waved a thin sounding wand over the glans.

“You will take this even if we have to give you a sedative again to quiet you down,” Brett said in a firm voice. “We are here to please Dodo, and he will get what he wants. If you don’t fight it, you will have pleasure as well. If you do fight it, you may be ruined. Do you understand? You must trust me. This will be unbelievably arousing to you. The ultimate fuck. You take this well, and you have a bright future. Are you going to settle down?”

“Please don’t. Please let me go.”

Brett was holding Angelo’s cock firmly and the cold tip of the wand was at Angelo’s piss slit, moving around the hole, caressing the rim of the entrance.

“Relax. This needs to go in at the right angle, if you don’t want to be ruined. Lay back and enjoy it. But Dodo must know that you will be totally ours. Doors will open to you, but only if you give over total control.”

With a sigh of resignation, Angelo collapsed into the vinyl cube. But he was arching his back again, panting heavily, and straining at the cuffs on his ankles and wrists when the American pressed the tip of the wand into the slit opening and then moved it deeper.

“Oh fuck, nooo,” Angelo moaned.

“Relax. Breath normally. You’ll love it. It’s already in. There’s nothing to fight anymore.”

Angelo panted and moaned, but he did relax back into the cube. He gasped as Brett brought the wand out and then pressed back in. Out and in; out and in.

“Ahhhhhhh.”

“Enjoying it now, aren’t you?”

Brett released Angelo’s cock, leaving the wand buried inside. He laced his fingers through Angelo’s balls and distended them. His other hand went to roaming Angelo’s chest. “You have such a beautiful body. You deserve to be in films,” the American murmured. He began to pump Angelo’s channel with his cock.

Ten minutes later, the bulb of Brett’s condom filled out inside Angelo, and he pulled out.

Now what? Angelo thought. Does the wand come out?

Now what was Doran Kokinos appearing from the shadows and taking up the station the Brett had withdrawn from. And, yes, the wand came out. But only to be replaced by a thicker wand. Doran’s cock was thicker than Brett’s too. Not as long, but quite definitely thicker, and Angelo only having been taken by Brett this far tensed his body, arched his head back, rolled his eyeballs up toward his eyebrows, and whimpered a low and ineffective plea to be released as a thicker cock worked hard to possess his channel and a thicker wand worked its way into Angelo’s urethra tube.

Kokinos, for all his gnome-like ugliness and coarseness, was a far more masterful cocksman and sounding manipulator than the American was. By closing his eyes and just going with varied rhythms and angles of the Greek’s cocking, the working of his free hand on Angelo’s body, and the off-beat probing of his piss channel with the thicker wand—and the even thicker one after that—Angelo was lifted to new heights of arousal that he could not deny had him dancing on clouds.

After twice begging for release and being denied, Kokinos let Angelo come during the fourth stage of the wands. The Greek had not come, however.

He called Brett over and told him he could release Angelo. “You may have him for the day. Teach him the positions you know I like. He will do very nicely. He will be in my bed tonight.”

Brett released an exhausted Angelo, slung him over his shoulder, and took him out of the exercise room en route to his bedroom. As they were leaving, Angelo lifted his eyes from the floor and caught a glimpse of Kokinos, his thick cock still hard and curved up, approaching another apparatus. Angelo saw Guido, his legs raised and spread wide, cuffed at the ankles on frame. He was naked, on his back, and his cock was standing straight up—with two wands protruding from the piss slit. Angelo heard the other young Italian fisherman cry out, as the Greek moved between his legs, thrust his hips forward and up, and began to pump.

That night, although smaller than Angelo, the Greek was solid muscle and much more powerful than young Italian. He slung the younger man around in countless positions—more than Brett had shown Angelo over the afternoon—and showed over and over again throughout the night that he could come again and again—and could make Angelo do so as well.

At first Angelo was disconcerted by the flashes going off around the bed periodically in a constant rhythm, but he grew used to it—just as he increasingly became addicted to the Greek tycoons expert fucking. By dawn, when the Greek told him that Brett would drive him back to his boat in the Positano harbor, Angelo didn’t want anything as much as the Greek’s cock inside him, working its magic.

* * * *

Brett dropped Angelo off in the Positano harbor late the next morning, and Angelo hobbled home rather than to his boat, almost not being able to mount the steep-sloped cobblestoned street to his building because of the glorious soreness in his channel and the aching of the leg muscles he’d used to keep his legs spread during the previous day and night, muscles he didn’t normal use in his fishing.

Before he went up into the town, however, he checked Guido’s fishing boat. It was still in the harbor, and Guido wasn’t in it.

Angelo slept most of the day, only managing to get up in time to make his set at the café. Neither the Greek nor the American nor Guido showed up at the café. Only the flirty Luciano fluttered around, teasing a couple of middle-aged male tourist existed at the café to remind the lifestyle that Angelo had fallen into. He surprised himself by thinking of the Greek and his cock—and the sounding—more than he did about the American. So, it wasn’t the beauty of a well-toned, young body that was attracting him. It was the mystery of the sounding and, above all, the mastery of a cock wielded by an experienced lover.

The next day, Angelo took his fishing boat out. He had to. He had to put food on his table. He went north rather than south, willing himself to do necessary work.

When Brett had left him off in the harbor, he said that he would come for Angelo when the Greek wanted him. Angelo assumed that would be the next day, but it wasn’t. And it wasn’t the next day either. On the afternoon of the second day, on which Angelo took the fishing boat south, to the fishing ground off Kokinos’s villa to spend more of the day with his binoculars than with his net, but not seeing any activity at the villa, Angelo checked out Guido’s boat again. It still hadn’t left the harbor.

And this time Guido’s boat at a “For Sale” sign on it.

“What do you know about Guido?” Angelo stopped at the fish market by the pier where Guido’s boat was lashed up. “His boat as a ‘For Sale’ sign on it.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Guido in days. But I’ve heard that he already has left Positano.”

“Left Positano?” Angelo was bewildered.

“Some say he has gone to Cyprus.”

“To Cyprus? What’s in Cyprus?”

“Well, his lawyer—who is trying to sell the boat—says that Guido is going to be in movies.”

“In movies? Movies film in Cyprus?”

“One supposes, but I don’t know. I just know that Guido’s family has had that boat for generations, and I think he must be crazy to be selling it and leaving our little slice of heaven.”

Angelo gave the man a dull look. Could he be serious, or was he poking fun? Not want to leave Positano? It had been Angelo’s dream for years to leave Positano—and even to be in movies. And now Guido was already doing it? Before him or rather than him?

Even though it was late in the afternoon and it would be dark before he returned, Angelo climbed the hill to his home, took his motor bike out of the shed in the garden at the back, and drove the coastal road south.

No one answered at the gates of the Kokinos villa and, although Angelo found a place that he could scale the wall and get into the compound, there was no sign that anyone was there.

Forlorn, Angelo putted back to Positano and, over the next three weeks, did what he could to return his life to normal. Of course he no longer could return to what he had known as normal before he found man-to-man sex. Guido’s lawyer had been making oblique suggestions to him for a couple of years. He was in his late forties and not bad looking, and he kept himself in trim condition. He had, in fact, been a bone of contention between Angelo and Guido. Guido had been willing to lay under the man, but the lawyer had made clear that he preferred Angelo. And yet Angelo had pretended that there was nothing on offer that he was interested in.

Angelo now surprised the man, though. He came to his door on a Saturday afternoon when Angelo knew that the lawyer’s wife and their housekeeper were in Salerno buying goods they couldn’t find in Positano. Angelo had taken him by the hand and led him to the man’s bed and let the lawyer fuck him. Over the weeks, the lawyer had regularly been appearing at the café in the evening and had gone to Angelo’s rooms and fucked him and then gone home to his wife. It was something, but not really enough for Angelo. The man did not have the imagination nor the demanding nature of either the American, Brett, or the Greek, Doran Kokinos.

But it was something, better than nothing. And the lawyer was totally smitten with his good luck.

* * * *

“Strip. This man is going to fuck you. And if he likes you, he will make you a film star.”

“A film star?” Angelo asked.

“Yes, he is a film director. From Cyprus. He makes men’s art films,” Doran Kokinos answered. “He can take you to Cyprus and put you into films.”

Angelo’s mind ran to Guido, who had not returned to Positano. The mention of films and Cyprus had told Angelo that this, no doubt, had been where Guido had gone. He also now clearly understood what was happening here. It wasn’t just the man—another tall Greek, hefty but not fat, with wavy black hair on his head, and black hair curling around and down his chest too—although not as much as Kokinos had—and a face that only a mother could love, but arousing in a thuggish way—and Kokinos and Angelo in the exercise room in Kokinos’s villa. Off to the side, the fluttery waiter from the café, Luciano, was cuffed to the vinyl cube, and Brett was fucking him and introducing him to the sounding wands. The little slut was bawling like a baby, but he wasn’t convincing. He was loving the attention and every other man in the room knew it.

The film director walked around Angelo when he was stripped, gliding his hand over this, gently prodding that. He laced his hands through Angelo’s balls and brought the young Italian close in to his body. They kissed and then the director went down on his knees before Angelo and gave him a blow job that was expert and had Angelo panting hard and ejaculating when the director told him he was free to do so.

Then it was Angelo’s turn to go on his knees and open his mouth. Brett and Doran had already taught him how to do this, and Angelo clearly understood that they had been testing and training him three weeks earlier. They had been recruiting here. No doubt they recruited elsewhere as well.

“Down on all fours,” the director commanded before he had come. Angelo went down on an exercise mat. Brett came over to join them. Doran had taken over at the cube, and had a thicker cock inside Luciano and a thicker wand in the young man’s penis. His penis was small, but most of the wand had disappeared inside him regardless. Luciano was quiet now, his head lolled over to the side, a trapped expression on his face.

Brett went down between Angelo’s legs. A hand encased Angelo’s cock, and Brett’s tongue and lips went to his rear entrance. The director stood in front of Angelo, feeding his cock into Angelo’s mouth.

When Angelo’s channel was ready, the director took him in multiple positions, Angelo being taken through the paces of the positions that he now realized that Brett and Doran had been teaching to him just for this very moment. Angelo wondered what their finders’ fees would be. But he found that he didn’t care anymore, not really.

The director was both thicker than Doran and longer than Brett, and he fucked Angelo without mercy, suggesting—even though no offer had been voiced as yet—that he needed to know what Angelo’s limits were, if any. Angelo almost reached those limits when the director laid on his back on the mat, brought Angelo down on his cock, pulled Angelo’s torso back to where he was lying on the man’s chest, and then Brett knelt between their legs and fed his cock into Angelo as well and started pumping.

When they finished, the director pushed Angelo off his body and disappeared for a few minutes. Brett was still crouched next to Angelo.

“Is that all?” Angelo whispered.

“He specializes in movies with sounding in them,” Brett murmured back. “You must trust us. You wanted to get out of Positano and even wanted to be in movies. You trust me, don’t you?”

Trust you? Angelo thought. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.

But then the director was back and Angelo was being lifted and laid on his back on the apparatus he’d last seen Guido on. His legs were being raised and spread and cuffed on a frame. And Brett was rolling the table with the sounding wands on them over to the apparatus. Doran had already released Luciano from the cube and carried him away, no doubt to his bed for further conditioning. The director picked up a thick wand—a thicker one than Angelo could remember having been used on him before. He moved between Angelo’s legs and Angelo gasped and arched his back as long, thick cock slid up into his channel. The man smiled a wicked smile and lifted the wand.

Angelo set his jaw, trying not to cry out, although the director had told him that he could—that it was something that would be good in the films. It was the best opportunity he was likely to get to come anywhere close to achieving his goals. Yes, he would tell these men he trusted them, if that’s what it took.