Out on the Street

Author Note: If you want this story to make any sense, please read Part One first. Also, be advised this work contains scenes of non-consensual sex and exploitative sexual situations. It also makes heavy use of the term ‘boy’ in its colloquial sense – that is, to indicate a male of younger age and lesser status than the speaker. It is not a reference to children. All characters are 18 years of age or older.

—–

Vittorio:

Neither of us spoke on the journey back home from Frank’s house that night. I was quiet because I was wretched, filled with guilt about what I’d entangled Angelo in – again. I was sure he’d hated it, that he’d blame me, that he’d hate me too, now.

I attempted to gauge the nature of his silence…without any luck. It was often hard to tell what Angelo was thinking. My stepfather, who’d never had much time for him, used to say that it was hard to tell if Angelo was thinking.

I hoped he wasn’t wondering if I’d set him up. I’d been hoping that – pleading internally, with every saint I could think of, for all the good it was likely to do – ever since Frank had instructed me to take him. I’d never imagined doing such a thing, never even thought of thinking it, and I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to do it, but I was there to do as Frank wished, not as I wished, and so was Angelo…now that I’d lured him there.

It had seemed the worst sort of betrayal, and I felt terrible while I was at it. Yet at the same time I understood in a moment why men sought this, why they bought it. I knew I would finish, though I’d had no desire to start…and for that I felt all the more guilty.

All I could think of to do was apologize, and once I started I couldn’t stop that either – I heard my voice, as though from a distance, saying ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’, over and over, like a novena, hoping he was hearing me, hoping he believed me.

When the tables were turned, I felt nothing much but relief…in my mind, at least. Very little squeamishness, that – ugh – this was Angelo, maybe because at least now I couldn’t see him, and certainly no resentment…I was getting nothing more than my just desserts.

He was done quickly, and I shook it off, as I had every other fuck, washed it off also, and then, and then…then we came back to the bedroom, to the sight of Frank, unbuttoned and clearly very ready, stroking his over-generous endowment, and I felt a sudden urge to bolt. But there was nowhere to go, so instead I did as I was bid, and climbed back up on the bed on all fours.

In some ways it was less bad than I’d feared, no doubt due to his cautious approach, his liberal use of the salve he had a big tin of, sitting on a bureau. It probably also helped to have been primed by Angelo, as he’d inferred.

In other ways it was worse than I could possibly have imagined. The room was brightly lit despite it being dark outside, I was entirely unclothed, on display, and Angelo had a ringside seat. I’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. A house may be safer than an alleyway, but in such a moment it doesn’t seem that way.

I yearned for the cloak of darkness and anonymity. I found darkness, at least, by closing my eyes, but I couldn’t remove myself completely, because I couldn’t close my ears, and Frank was talking to me, steady, calm, and continuous, as he speared me. It was an enormously disconcerting experience – his quiet soothing voice, the gentleness of his tracing fingers, in sharp contrast with the unforgiving rigidity of the organ he was gradually embedding in me.

And he was so slow – so dawdling, almost, about everything! I couldn’t just brace myself, let my thoughts flee, allow it go on and pretend all this was happening to someone else. His voice kept pulling me back down, grounding me, reminding me that I was here, that I was me, and his easy, undulating advances supplanted the usual searing blur with layer on layer of detail, of bizarre un-ignorable sensation.

He seemed to have invaded and overcome my mind as much as my rear – it was already too much, and then he sent Angelo in underneath me…

I looked across at him trudging along beside me, our feet in step as often happened, and wondered if he was disgusted with me, if he was disgusted with himself…if I was either of those things.

No, I decided, mulling it over – aside from feeling worried about how he might feel, I was only a bit shaken and very confused just now. Confused that people with such tastes as Frank existed, confused at all the horseplay he’d insisted on between myself and Angelo when he might have just taken either or both us any way he chose without any preamble whatsoever. Confused at his apparent interest in witnessing us climax when it wasn’t in any way necessary to the proceedings. Confused by my own apparent ability to do so, not once but twice, and in such outlandish circumstances….

I was also a little confused about whether or not to repeat the experience. On the one hand, it would be stupid to turn down a guaranteed five dollars a week – though what other whimsies might Frank subject us to, if that was just the beginning?

But…five dollars, and a bath. Bread with jam spooned on in great dollops, in place of smeary scrapes. And cigarettes and apples and cheese…and only once a week.

I weighed the possibilities one against another, and decided I’d go back if Angelo would. I also knew I could only go back if Angelo would. And that if my concerns about being a bad influence on him were genuine at all, I had to let him decide, and not try to persuade him.

Angelo went to bed and to sleep as soon as we arrived back to our bunks. He said nothing about it the next day, or about anything much else. The topic wasn’t mentioned Monday, either. By then I was sure he was angry, and I was miserable. I decided it would be best to drop the whole thing. I’d do a lot for five dollars a week, but not if it meant sacrificing our friendship.

Tuesday morning he was cheerful enough and I was reserved, nearly full to the brim with self-blame. In the evening after the hooter blew, we followed our usual routine, aimlessly walking the streets until we came across a place offering soup and hash for cheap, eating, resuming our wandering.

After about ten minutes, Angelo crouched down beside a wagon in the lee of the wind to light a cigarette, and I followed suit.

He looked at me as he drew on it. “Well, what are we going to do?”

In the moment, I didn’t understand. “About what?”

He frowned. “About your friend on the Upper East Side, of course!”

I glared back, protesting, “He isn’t any friend of mine!”

He stood and reached a hand down to me, to haul me to my feet. “Mmh – well, you know what I mean. You heard him. We have to decide to together. And if we aren’t allowed to do any…other stuff, then we ought to decide tonight.”

He was right. Tuesday was a good evening to stake out a spot where you could be found by someone on the prowl. Sundays were no good because the taverns were closed, and Mondays were usually slim pickings as well, so after two days of restraint, there were plenty of men looking to cut loose a little.

I nodded, unsure of what to say, not wanting to push him in one direction or another.

“What do you think we should do?” he prompted.

“I don’t know,” I confessed, “but I’m sorry about some of that…stuff, that happened. You have to believe me, I had no idea it was going to be like that.”

“It was something else,” he agreed. “But maybe it was worth it, for five dollars.”

I felt relief beginning to seep through my body. If he was evaluating the experience in this pragmatic way, then any horror or disgust he might’ve felt had run its course.

“So you didn’t dislike it too much?” I ventured.

He gave me an odd look. “I’d say I pretty much did. But I don’t suppose anybody enjoys being buggered,” adding, “though it does…improve things, when you have a tongue wrapped about your prick while it’s going on.” He grinned, and dug me in the ribs.

I couldn’t believe he would joke about it…I went hot all over with embarrassment and shied away from him a little. He gave me a hard shove then, making me stagger and almost lose my footing. I tilted back at him and before I knew it, we were boxing one another on the sidewalk.

We were separated in short order by a tall, forbidding-looking man, who simply snapped at us to ‘take it elsewhere’, before striding away.

“Where were we?” said Angelo, re-settling his clothes, reaching down to pick up a shirt button I’d managed to rip off.

“We were discussing Frank,” I reminded him. “But you know, we don’t have to decide tonight. We have five dollars from Saturday. That’s enough for now. We can decide later in the week.”

He shrugged. “If you like. You’re right, five dollars is about as much as I ever made in a week on my knees in an alley. Let’s give it away for today.”

We walked on companionably, no destination in mind, kicking at objects on the sidewalk, the silence between us no longer a gulf. I couldn’t help thinking that five dollars was well more than I’d ever made in a week on my knees, and feeling a tiny stab of jealousy.

I was still chiding myself for that, when Angelo spoke again. “Would you go back?”

“I don’t want to say,” I admitted. “I want you to decide. I landed you in this…this whole thing, actually. I’ll do what you want.”

“Mmh,” he grunted, again. Then, after a few seconds, “I thought it might be risky, getting involved with somebody like that. We can’t afford to do anything to make him angry. I mean, you saw his house – if he isn’t important himself, he’ll have important friends. But then…we saw his house. We know where he lives. We might be able to find out other things about him as well. You probably could, anyway. You’re the clever one.”

Despite apparently being the clever one, I was trailing behind. “What are you driving at?”

“Well,” he said, peeking at me out the corner of his eye, “I doubt he would want any of his important friends finding out about his strange appetites.”

“How do you suppose we would track down his important friends?” I demanded, irritated. “How do you suppose we would even get access to them – get heard, never mind believed?”

“I didn’t mean that,” he replied, unruffled. “Only that he’s taking some kind of a risk, same as we are…and that makes it safer.”

If my stepfather had been present, I’d have been able to throw open my arms, and say;

“See? He does think! He thinks just fine!” Though if my stepfather had heard any of the context, he’d have been too busy being outraged at the pair of us to appreciate Angelo’s impeccable logic.

“So,” I prompted, “are you saying you might give it a try?”

“I reckon I will, if you will – for a while, anyway,” he replied. “Better to have a sure five dollars than a maybe, seems to me. What do you think?”

“Alright,” I agreed, “alright, we’ll give it a go.”

—–

Frank:

The certainty I felt that those boys would return, was, as it turned out, a mere mirage – a chemical by-product of the blazing triumph of orgasm. It passed, and I evaluated the situation in a level-headed way, acknowledging that the chances of encountering them again were even at best.

But hope was always at my elbow, breaking in, like a pestering nephew in pursuit of sweets. And my libido! That was like a horse turned out to pasture after a winter in stables, careening here and there, shying at nothing, kicking up its heels, dropping down to roll, haring off again in no particular direction.

I wondered how long it would take to settle down again if those boys didn’t come back. I wondered how long it would take to settle down again if they did. And whether I wanted it to.

My pulse spiked, giving me an odd edge-of-the-cliff feeling, when I saw them waiting there for me at the corner on Sunday, looking plenty at home, despite the fact that this was likely an unfamiliar part of the city for them – practised loiterers, both – young and lithe and fundamentally free, untrammelled by the many constraints that pressed in on me from all sides.

Though of course, I confessed to myself, I wouldn’t exchange my stability or my comfort for what they had, which was essentially the freedom of having nothing much left to lose – but there was something undeniably alluring about the combination of their obvious youth, their assurance, and their independence.

“Good evening,” I said, as I drew alongside, subtly beckoning them to follow. “Have you had a pleasant week?”

Immediately, the ease between them evaporated – I caught them darting a quick glance at one another, before Vittorio simply replied;

“Sir?” – which I understood to be more of a respectful place-filler than either an answer or a question.

A pleasant week, I thought to myself. A pleasant week? No I don’t suppose you have. What are you going to say next, Frank? Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it? Just leave them be for now.

I had them bathe again. I watched them while they did it, again. I went a little easier on them once we adjourned to the bedroom – no need to be doing everything every time. Particularly given it seemed there were going to be other times.

In the weeks that followed, I strove to progress things, working patiently with – on – them, trying in some small way to mould them to whatever fantasy was insurgent in my mind that day without turning them into simple puppets, without erasing what either of them were, and weren’t.

After a month or so I thought I could see the limits of what we’d be able to achieve. They were no longer overawed by either me or the backdrop of my house, my bedroom. They were biddable without being servile, politely tolerant of my foibles. But they remained stilted and apologetic with each other if I asked them to simulate any sort of foreplay, engage in any kissing, caressing – more comfortable with the business end of things.

I supposed I could hardly blame them – it’s an oddity of men in general to happily copulate with someone we know barely at all, but kissing – supposedly a step on the way – is avoided in such situations because it feels too intimate.

They were also, I felt, more accepting of being utilized than they were of being watched. I supposed the delectation of voyeurism was likely to remain confusing for anyone reared in an environment where there was no such thing as privacy, and hence no taboo to break. No doubt they perfectly understood that a man needs to get one off now and then, but they couldn’t wrap their heads around why he must needs watch others at it.

These small considerations aside, both my mind and my body were extremely appreciative of the arrangement we’d formed – I always started to feel a sort of small pleasurable tingle of anticipation, beginning somewhere in my abdomen, about Friday, increasing in strength and intrusiveness, making the slow drag of Sunday afternoon a sort of pain-pleasure, by the time it rolled around – and I never ceased to experience the sudden wash of exultation when there they were, once again, waiting for me.

As we spent more time together, I came to know them, some – or I felt I did. It was good to have the two of them, even aside from the opportunity it presented for watching them play – their obvious contrasts threw one another into relief and each amplified the other, somehow.

My obsession with Angelo’s beauty continued unabated, but as time went on I noticed that though he was a thoroughbred in body, he was more of a cart-horse mentally. I had the sense that the world surrounding him, in all it’s colorful gory potential, simply didn’t fascinate him. He was essentially incurious, his existence composed of routine and bland fact, stripped of conjecture. It didn’t make him any less of a feast for the eyes.

Vittorio, on the other hand, was mighty inquisitive at times. Once, perched on my spare bed, naked as a jaybird, he asked me what was in my glass.

“It’s Scotch,” I told him, without thinking to explain further.

Back he came, more like a cheeky sparrow than a jaybird. “What’s that, then?”

“It’s whisky, made in Scotland,” I specified. “Do you know where Scotland is?”

He screwed up his face for a moment. “It’s on top of England, is it?”

“Something like that,” I agreed. “They make a lot of whisky there, and it’s drunk all over the world – no-one else can make it quite the same.”

On another occasion, clothed this time, eating slices of apple at the end of an evening, he said;

“Sir, what do you do? What’s your work?”

“I’m an importer,” I replied. “Of tableware, in the main. I have the license to distribute in the States, for a number of European manufacturing houses. Some china, but mostly crystal, like this,” tilting my tumbler toward him slightly, “which was made in Ireland, at the Waterford works.”

Angelo intervened to ask me how much the tumbler was worth.

“This one?” I asked, frowning down at it, as it winked light back at me from its facets. In truth, it wasn’t an especially expensive piece. I’d simply developed an attachment to it over time – it was weighty, but not too weighty, and it fit well to my hand.

“I’m not entirely sure nowadays,” I admitted. “I’ve had it for a while. I think probably about a dollar, maybe a little more.”

Angelo went wide-eyed and silent, but Vittorio asked me if I actually bought the goods and then sold them here, or if there was some other way of doing it, ‘because how would you gather the money to buy such quantities of expensive goods, months before you could get to sell them again?’ I was amused and impressed in equal measure, and spent ten minutes or so skating over the basics of distribution contracts and business loans with him, before waving them off into the night once more.

Inevitably, our activities shook down into something resembling a routine. This wasn’t reflective of any guttering of my desire – rather, I settled on the things which gratified me most. Always, I would watch the two of them together first, choreographing them closely.

I’d have them handle one another or go down on one another until they were both aroused, a tactic which never failed – they were young and apparently healthy, and could easily obtain erections under direct stimulation even in trying circumstances.

Then I’d set them to wrestling and nuzzling and frotting against one another, talking with them about foreplay, about the creation of a sense of anticipation, the possibility of a desire that extended beyond the animal urge to empty their gonads, about gratification being sweeter when delayed.

Usually I’d wind up this aspect of the evening by having Angelo mount his friend in some pose or another. Occasionally I suffered some qualms about the rank hypocrisy of my lecturing them on eroticism being largely in the mind, having specifically put them in a position where they were now hostage to the needs of their bodies, helpless in the face of their own potency.

I was also aware that the division of labor wasn’t wholly fair to Vittorio in this regard, but Angelo showed to such advantage when he was active, slowly, deliberately thrusting, working up a sheen of sweat, raised up on his fists, neck and torso corded with muscle – besides, with his small, lissome physique, Vittorio folded up neatly a hundred different ways under or around him without any particular evidence of strain.

I never tired of watching them at it, and I endeavored to enlarge my window of opportunity by requiring Angelo to hold off his climax for longer and longer periods, and despite not seeming an especially teachable individual, he improved considerably in this regard as time went on.

When he was done, I usually went one of two ways, despite having a tableful of options in front of me. Either I’d excuse Vittorio to wash and dress and rest with a cigarette, lounging against the wall of the bathroom, and have Angelo bring me off with his mouth, or I’d excuse Angelo instead, and take his place inside Vittorio.

My reluctance to mount Angelo after the first few times confused me initially, given that, so far as I could discern, it was based on nothing more than the fact that he clearly didn’t enjoy it. Well, what was so surprising about that? Only those who are inclined toward their own sex will respond positively to such an activity, and by no means all of them. And he never refused or even complained. He kept coming back. But…

Eventually I concluded that I was feeling, coming off him, the sense that having to give himself up to me in this way diminished him, robbed him of dignity. And that in some way, it was his native dignity, his bearing, that was the key to his overall resplendence, the core of my fascination with him, so that I’d be unwise to interfere with it too much lest I lose it, break it somehow…

Besides, he had lovely mouth on him, a sturdy steady jaw, a rhythm that was vigorous and determined enough to almost pass for enthusiasm, and deal of staying power. I suspected the enthusiasm was more for having the whole thing finished and done than anything else – but I appreciated the effort if not the sentiment, as he worked me and I threaded my fingers through his glorious hair, massaged his shoulders, laid a palm against his neck to feel the sinuous suction from another angle…

—–

Vittorio

Once the decision to continue our visits to Frank was made, there was no need to speak of it anymore. We returned to the topic only once, and it wasn’t me who brought it up. One evening, on our long walk back to our rooms, Angelo stopped abruptly and frowned across at me. He looked up at the stars, he looked down at his feet, and then he blurted;

“You’re having to work harder for your five dollars than I am.”

I knew what he was alluding to, but I sidestepped it, shrugging.

“It doesn’t matter. We have to do what he wants. And anyway, I wouldn’t have any five dollars if it weren’t for you.”

He seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“It’s you he’s mainly interested in,” I told him. Surely he realised that?

Apparently not. He sniffed, spat in the gutter, and remarked, “Sure don’t look that way to me.”

Ah, I thought, as we resumed our walking, but you don’t see him watching you. It’s the sight of you that whets his appetite. You’re the object of desire. I’m…a conveniently appointed receptacle.

I wasn’t bitter about it. Frank wasn’t a brute, and it made perfect sense to me that a man who desired men would place Angelo first and foremost in any ranking system. Also on my mind was the fact that given that I was undoubtedly the ringleader of this whole escapade, it was probably appropriate for the consequences to tilt in my direction. And that Frank went comparatively lighter on Angelo meant I worried less that Angelo would develop a grudge against me for dragging him into this…

Despite my fears, everything had seemed the same between us after that first time. Angelo was so apparently sanguine about everything that had happened, and I had thought – if we could come through that unscathed, there was perhaps nothing much to worry over.

I worried anyway, but in all my fretting over how the ‘arrangement’ might affect Angelo’s feelings toward me, I never spared a thought on what could happen to mine. Why would I have? My previous experience had very much been that the echoes of whatever a man had done to me would linger far longer in the body than the mind.

With Frank, and by extension with Angelo…it was otherwise. God damn Frank, with his insistence that we petted one another for an age before he’d allow anything else, forcing us to play-act as lovers, making us look while we touched one another! It had made me see things, it had made me think things, it had made me feel things…

Angelo. Angelo. He seemed so different to me now, but I knew he was the same. It was me that was changed.

I’d always known he was beautiful – that was a plain fact, inescapable. Water was wet, objects fell downward, Angelo was beautiful. It didn’t matter. Then, suddenly, it mattered almost more than anything in the world. Now, every Sunday, as my fingers played over his flesh, I barely heard Frank’s murmured instructions, emanating from over there by his armchair, so lost was I in marvelling over what I was experiencing…

His chest hair in whorls, like the little eddies you see by the sides of streams, where the current is weaker, the small starbursts of freckles that ringed his nipples, the patterns of pleasure that chased across his face so briefly when I handled his cock, before he tucked them sternly away, clenching his jaw…

This newfound beauty, it was so vast, so inexplicable, so extraordinary to me as to seem almost…holy. Now when I laid down for him, on Frank’s instruction, it felt like an act of worship. It was fitting, it was right. It was my place to serve someone so surpassingly lovely. It was my privilege.

The pain of entry came to be a curtain of cobwebs, to be brushed aside – to have him buried in me no longer an invasion, but an occupation, a settling. Now, as the plush pincushion head knocked blindly for admittance behind me, some part of me near-pleaded for it. I would feel an anticipatory tingling, a prickling all throughout my flesh, a breathless desperation – only a few seconds more, but the wait was unbearable…

It wasn’t, I told myself, that I desired this for myself – that I wanted him to do this to me. I wanted him to have this of me. I knew that he enjoyed me, even if he didn’t precisely want me, and that, to be the canvas for his pleasure, it was enough. More than enough. It was contentment, it was joy, it was warmth and light and food and drink. I could never be hungry, never be cold, never be lost while Angelo was inside me.

But for the remainder of the time, I was all these things and more besides. I felt like a butterfly I’d seen once through a shop window, pinned down in a display case. The butterfly was dead, of course, but even if it hadn’t been, it couldn’t have escaped. It was caught one day, all unawares. It was too late for the butterfly before ever it realised it, and after that, there was no hope, and I was the same. I couldn’t evade the workings of my own mind any more than I could exit my body on a Sunday evening – pinned down and held, in the here, in the now. I existed for it. For him. For better or worse.

As for Frank, I hated him, because it was he who’d done this to me. And I loved him, because he’d given me Angelo.

Angelo. I wanted to kneel on the floor beside him and lean into him, rest my head on his thigh like an old dog – I wanted for him to place his palm on my head and pet me absently while he sat and thought his unvoiced thoughts. I wanted him to take my hand and mesh his fingers with mine while we walked. I wanted him at my back, draped warm and slack against me while we slept.

I desired all of these things as the darkest of secrets, and yet in some part of me, I wanted him to know. I wanted him discover me, accuse me, strip me of all excuse and pretence, to clothe me with himself – I wanted him to throw me down and take me, for his own pleasure, of his own volition – because he wanted to.

And I knew he never would.

—–

Frank:

Ordinarily, my gaze was chained on Angelo any time he was in my presence, regardless of what he was doing, but one evening a couple of months into my agreeable new arrangement, I chanced to run my eyes briefly over his mate while they were entangled in one another.

I thought I’d imagined it – that I was seeing things – but after I’d blinked several times in disbelief, it was still there. More so, in fact.

Vittorio, his head, shoulders and upper back resting on the bed, had his ankles linked loosely together behind his friend’s waist as Angelo stood, leaning forward ever so slightly, his capable sturdy hands spread under Vittorio’s thighs for a support as he thrust, and under this treatment, Vittorio was half-hard…and rising.

This is new, I thought. I wonder what it means?

Angelo, eyes sealed shut as ever, jaw set, was performing his task with ox-like docility – slow, as I’d instructed, stroking meditatively, almost soothingly, in and out, in out, apparently unaware of the impact he was having.

It was a fortunate position I’d arranged them in, I reflected. The effect might be…wholly mechanical.

I stole another peek at Vittorio. He was simply laying there, arms spread, passive and still – from his pose, he might for all the world have been merely tolerating what was being meted out to him, but, ohhh…

His eyes were open, his mouth was open, his soul was open. His whole self was blooming, and drinking in Angelo… I detected awe, tinged with desperation, in his expression. He was…ecstatic, yes…but also overwhelmed.

He doesn’t know how to land the fish he’s hooked, I thought. He might actually be bent, this one. Or he might not. But he’s in love, either way.

I watched, and watched, and watched, as Angelo became a shadow, a featureless slow-shunting outline at the periphery of my vision. This, this was what I’d been hankering after, for god knows how many years, this. Not the soulless fucks of a brothel or an alley, nor a mere mime of enjoyment being played out for my benefit, but this…raw, undistilled pleasure – so much of it that it couldn’t be contained, couldn’t be concealed…

He surely tried, though. I saw the reflected glory on the reclining boy’s face when Angelo reached his climax, but it evaporated the moment he began to draw back, Vittorio snapping his eyes shut and guiltily reaching down with both hands to cover his genitals.

He curled up on his side, hands still tucked between his legs, and then there was a long stasis. Nothing was happening. I realized with a start that the problem was me. They were waiting for instruction.

I turned to Angelo, standing uncertainly by me. “You can go now.”

As the bedroom door clicked softly shut, Vittorio rolled off his side and came to his hands and knees, presenting his haunches to me at the edge of the bed. I understood. It was what we had always done, it was the pattern. But today I wanted something different.

My father’s knuckles became ever more swollen and misshapen from his middle years onward, and pained him dreadfully by the end. With me, the same disease had settled in my wrists, and bending them to any degree was something I avoided whenever possible. Bending them while bearing up my own weight was…unthinkable.

It’d been a full ten years since I’d last fucked a man in a lover’s embrace, between his spread thighs, watching the play of emotions on his face as his flesh yielded to my advance, and I felt the loss. It was one of the reasons I so often set these two together in that intimate style, because it was otherwise out of reach.

But…I was thinking…Vittorio was so small. If, instead of bearing myself up, I were to stand as Angelo had been, if I were to grasp those thighs as he’d done? Not a great deal of weight, and not so very much flexion either…

“Turn over like you were,” I said. “Lie down.”

He complied, returning his hands to his groin on the way. I took hold of each of his wrists and arranged them as they had been, splayed at each side. Then I stepped back and looked him over, upward in a sweep, past his still-erect cock to meet those eyes, unnerved, but audacious all the same.

I liked that about this boy – that he had the spirit of a fighter, if not the brawn – that when push came to shove, he would stand his corner and stare me down, instead of cringing away behind his eyelids.

“You know, you don’t have to save it for me,” I remarked, as I began unbuttoning my flies. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I’d love to see you…enjoy yourself with him…”

Vittorio flung his head from side to side in negation of this idea, then stilled, those eyes wild now, ringed with white, fearful and pleading.

Of course. I remembered his face as he had watched Angelo, all that conflict. “You don’t want him to know, hmm?”

He raised himself up on his elbows and shook his head again, just as forcefully. “Please…?”

“I won’t tell him,” I soothed, lifting his thighs, drawing him toward me. “I won’t say a word.”

He took me without any great difficulty these days. Once he’d understood that I strove to avoid hurting him, he became much more relaxed, which in turn made it a good deal easier not to hurt him.

I thought, as I watched him, that I wished I’d done this much sooner. My wrists weren’t overtaxed in such a position, and the view was…indescribable. Vittorio’s face was a veritable riot of passion, and his cock, slim and dark like the rest of him, was laying along his belly, pointing like a compass needle toward his chin, as hard as I’d seen it. The only thing that could possibly have made the scene any better was access to his eyes, that window to his soul, but they were screwed tightly shut.

I stilled inside him and placed my left forearm under the small of his back for a support, while I reached for his hand and brought it to his cock. Immediately he recoiled, returning his hand to the mattress. I reached for it again and he resisted me this time.

“No?” I said.

Vittorio shook his head, eyes still shut.

“I won’t tell,” I breathed, but he shook his head again, his expression pained, and I saw that his erection was beginning to fade also. Clearly I had better abandon this tack for now and return to what I’d previously been doing.

It didn’t answer so well the second time. As I fucked myself to completion, his arousal gradually ebbed and ebbed, until it might almost never have been, and I couldn’t help but feel a little wounded.

It was hours after they’d left, and a considerable pile of cigarette stubs had built up in my ashtray before I understood what I’d done wrong.

Angelo, while he rutted his friend at my behest, had never once opened his eyes. This I knew, and I had little doubt that it was to maintain the pretence that he was deep in the folds between some wench’s pappy thighs. Of course, of course it was the same with Vittorio. He’d kept his eyes resolutely shut while I defiled him, to hold the image of Angelo in his mind, and I’d ruined that image by encouraging him to touch himself, something Angelo would never have thought to do.

In addition I had no doubt betrayed myself every time I opened my mouth – the cadence and timbre of my voice were vastly different to Angelo’s, not to mention my accent. I resolved in future to keep a monk-like silence whenever I was inside him, to see if it would maintain his trance.

I was going to try it the very next week, but in the event, it didn’t come to that. I can’t say exactly what made me do…what I did. I was following my nose, as they say. I think…I was simply curious to discover the length and breadth and depth of Vittorio’s obsession.

I didn’t ask them to nuzzle or stroke each other, to breathe one another in. Mere moments after they walked into my spare bedroom, newly scrubbed down and dried off, I had Vittorio on his knees, working Angelo’s cock to attention.

I watched their rhythm for a few minutes, my hand laid on Angelo’s shoulder, which I surmised would prove a distraction and keep him from cresting too early. Then I leaned in toward his ear, and murmured;

“You can finish in his mouth today – but first, be a little rough with him, mmh? Show him who’s in charge just now.”

What happened next was surprising in a multitude of ways. Angelo opened his eyes to stare unblinkingly – I thought, uncomprehendingly – at me for several seconds, before taking a firm grasp on Vittorio’s hair, wrenching him away from his task, and dragging his head downward behind him until the base of his neck came to rest near the mattress’s edge.

Kneeling with his spine bowed acutely in this fashion, wincing from the assault on his hair, Vittorio was utterly defenceless. He was unable to fend, because he needed his hands on the floor by his feet for support, and such was the extension of his neck, he couldn’t close his mouth.

Still holding that hank of hair, Angelo stepped astride him, leaned forward to re-insert himself, closed his eyes as ever, and then proceeded to so thoroughly pillage his poor friend’s helpless throat as to entirely astonish me. He was usually so…bovine…in temperament, I hadn’t dreamed he could have such energy, such passion, buried anywhere within him.

A glance at Vittorio proved even more instructive. His face I could barely detect, buried as it was in Angelo’s bush most of the time, but he’d splayed his knees in an attempt to lose height and thus reduce the pressure on his spine, and he was still requiring his hands either side for balance.

The combined effects meant that his genitals were very much on display to me. He couldn’t possibly have been comfortable, arranged as he was, even discounting his abortive struggles to draw breath around the onslaught, but apparently none of that mattered. The arousal I saw before me now, I knew for sure wasn’t a mere by-product of a fortunate position. This was…the real thing.

Angelo didn’t last very long at the furious pace he’d set for himself, which was perhaps fortunate for Vittorio’s lungs. Immediately the hold on his hair was released, he fell forward to the floor, gasping and retching.

Angelo’s face registered horror – but I knew Vittorio wasn’t collapsing. He was hiding.

I flapped a hand in Angelo’s direction. “Go. I’ll deal with him.”

I managed to wait for the door to close, though it was a struggle. The very instant the latch clicked, my fingers closed around Vittorio’s bicep. I dragged him to his feet then tossed him like a bundle of sticks the couple of feet to my armchair. He fell backward into it and lay spread-eagle, looking up at me, still panting, recovering his breath.

I reached for his hand and closed it around his erection. “Do yourself!” I hissed. “I want to watch.”

He blinked, swallowed, closed his eyes and began to stroke. Hastily, I released my own cock from the confines of my clothes and began likewise, leaning over him, handling myself roughly, with a trembling urgency, with an intensity I hadn’t felt for eons, eyes locked on the vision below me.

Mere minutes later, Vittorio was breathing heavily still, but it was a different heavy breathing now. His lower lip was clamped between his teeth, his nostrils flared, the head of his cock almost purple with need, and his rhythm was fast but faltering…any moment now…

I felt my own flesh begin to tighten and draw up in response, in anticipation. Seconds after he finished spattering his slender chest and abdomen, I was adding my own contribution, my heading spinning with the power of the climax overtaking me.

I regarded our combined offerings for a moment. Christ, it was a lot! I needed that, and apparently he did too. Emerging once more into the present, Vittorio looked worriedly up at me, his slimy right hand resting near his retreating cockhead, his left arm crooked precariously across his ribs in an attempt to contain the glistening exudate decorating him, prevent it from reaching the chair.

One never gives a thought to furnishings in the heat of the moment, but now? I was as keen as he to protect my chair – and my carpets. I decided I’d carry him through to the bathroom. My clothes were much more easily cleaned. But before stooping to worm my arms under his shoulders and knees, I trailed two fingers around and around on his abdomen, thoroughly mixing our seed, enjoying the thought as much as the sight.

I wasn’t going to ask him to lick my fingers, but he opened his mouth for me anyhow. I knew it wasn’t hunger, wasn’t eagerness. He was simply anticipating what my desire might be and acquiescing to it. It did surprisingly little for me to have him dutifully clean me with his tongue, and in the moment, I made my decision.