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Double Penetration

I woke before dawn, sore but satiated, unable to sleep because of the building story demanding attention in my mind. The studio apartment was small but comfortable enough for the time I’d be here. And there was that gigantic double French door right beside the bed that opened up onto a balcony half way up the tiered-building steep slope of the Italian fishing village rising from a quaint Mediterranean Sea harbor. The harbor was shared by a small yacht marina and a larger dock area for fishing boats that still shoved out to sea overnight to bring their catch in in the morning. This was a village I didn’t remember the name of that was yet another charming, picturesque Italian coastal town on my summertime journey around Italy. It had all been arranged by my literature professor, Brandon James, through a gay-friendly travel agency. All of the villages on the itinerary were picturesque like this and were chosen as destinations to whet my creative writing juices.

At twenty, I was one of James’s star college students and bed partners. He had arranged this summer-session trip for me to create a portfolio of stories for his course work–well, two portfolios. There was one related to culture and travel around the coast of Italy for his class and there was another portfolio of stories just for him of sexual activity with men on my travels. Both he and I knew which stories were the more inspiring and easy to write for me.

My muse wouldn’t let me sleep even though the evening before had been taxing–probably because the evening before had been taxing. I rose from the bed, just in my sleeping shorts, took up my computer, and took it out to the table on balcony, where I could watch the early fingers of dawn reflecting off the Mediterranean and start writing a story inspired by the previous evening’s encounter.

The actual events and the way I wove the story diverged after a while, as happened with all of the stories I was writing just for Brandon, but the inspiration was uniform and they started out in concert.

I had gone down to a terraced area square, two terraces up from the harbor front, the previous evening, where there was a largely open tavern bar with a glorious view of the activity in the harbor. The sun was going down in vibrant colors, inviting lingering over a delicious dinner and a bottle of wine, eased by a guitar player strumming ballads in a rich, seductive tenor. I was, of course, alone at my table, but I had been seated prominently on the terrace, the host whispering something about “a beautiful young man should be prominently displayed.” Before he pulled away, he asked if I was English and when I said, no, American. In response to this he bunched the fingers of one hand together and kissed them, giving me a deep smile.

I knew that this was a gay-friendly tavern. The travel agency gave me extensive notes about where to go and what to see on my travels. Brandon had augmented these to emphasize how I could get inspiration for my stories–both mainstream and gay male.

There were men at other tables, several of them older men. All of these were either handsome or sexually attractive–or both at once–as so many Italian men seem to be. Many of them were making eyes at me, encouraging contact. One was bolder than the rest. Salvatore, as I was to learn was his name, had a wavy mane of salt-and-pepper hair, with a trimmed mustache and beard to complete the aura of being engagingly hirsute. He was wearing a black satin shirt, unbuttoned half way to his navel and showing that he indeed was hirsute, and black trousers. A gold chain around his neck caught the light from the fairy lights strung over the terrace area and becoming more prominent as the sun went down.

He was the first to make a move, bringing a bottle of wine to my table.

“I couldn’t help but notice the swill they have served you–their house wine. I overheard you were American. A traveler to Italy deserves a better wine than that. I have brought you a better wine. May I pour you a glass?”

“Yes, why not? Thanks,” I said.

“But you should not drink alone. May I join you?”

“Yes, certainly.” I was shopping for inspiration for stores. This was easy inspiration for a story. I recognized that this was the start of a hookup if I acceded to it. He was a very sexy, mature man–well groomed and in great muscular shape for his age. He wasn’t handsome, but his somewhat coarse, thuggish face had character.

I took a sip and then a deeper drink. He was leaning into me, his eyes drilling in me as if he was on pins and needles on whether or not I liked the wine. I understood it was more than that. If I continued drinking his wine he could have me.

“The wine is delicious,” I said, giving him a smile. The notes I had been given had told me that saying this was saying more than just I would accept the wine.

Returning the smile, he reached over and unbuttoned the top of the white cotton shirt I was wearing over worn jeans. I didn’t resist. The seduction was progressing. That I acted like the undressing ankara travesti hadn’t already started signaled for him to continue, as he wished.

“You are a beautiful young man,” he said in a soothing baritone voice. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I said. “I am on a writing sabbatical from a university in North Carolina–a southern state in the United States.” I took another deep pull on the wine, which was heady and intoxicating. “This wine is really good, but it’s heavy too. One could get drunk on this.”

“Yes, one could, as one could easily get drunk on your beauty. And then one could become quite uninhibited, couldn’t one? Twenty is such a wonderful age. Such a beautiful body and flexible, I’m sure. Are you an athlete?”

“I do compete in gymnastics for my university, yes.” A hand went to my knee. I didn’t pull away, so it moved higher on my thigh.

“Are you traveling with someone else? A young woman, or perhaps an older man?” He wanted to know if I would take a daddy.

“No, I’m traveling alone,” I answered.

“But if you did travel, would it be with a young woman or an older man?” he asked, adding, before I could process this and wonder what to answer–how quickly and pointedly to progress a seduction I was encouraging. “Are you aware of why single men come to this tavern–what sort of clientele they specialize in here?”

“I had been told, yes,” I said.

“So, a younger woman or an older man?”

“An older man,” I answered.

“Ah, you perhaps have experience with older men then?”

“Yes.” Why lie? I had already said “yes” in my mind. My muse was already weaving this into a story.

His hand was put to my crotch now, cupping my balls through the worn material of my jeans. The jeans were more worn in the crotch than on the legs. I purposely wore them for attention. He rubbed my cock through the material with his thumb. I moaned low and he took my hand and placed it on his crotch. He was hard. I didn’t take it away, but, rather, traced the side of the shaft through the material.

“I am a man of considerable experience,” he said. “Younger men enjoy me.”

“I’m sure they do,” I said. I relaxed back into my chair, spreading my legs, letting him get a full feel of me.

“I have a car just over there by the square,” he whispered. “Will you go with me for…?” And he named a very attractive fee.

Up to this point, how it unfolded and how I wrote it were pretty much the same, if the written version was, perhaps, more pointed and direct–and overtly sexy–than the reality. From here it diverged. I wrote it up as Salvatore turning out to be an Italian count with a winery and villa higher in the hills, but still overlooking the sea.

In this version of the story, he drove me there in his Maserati, but before we got to the villa, he drove off the road between two rows of grapevines. Cupping the back of my neck he leaned me over to him and our mouths went into a kiss. From there, he guided my face down into his lap, where he’d already unzipped and pulled a half-hard shaft out. He was, of course, heavily hung. I gave him head until he was in full erection, and then he moved under me into the passenger seat, pulling my clothes off of me as he did so. He forced me down into his lap, facing him.

He took considerable time sheathing his shaft inside me, as I gasped and panted at the effort to stretch to his length and girth demands. He fucked me there, grasping my hips, squeezing my channel open, and pulling me up and down on his throbbing cock.

After he’d fucked me in the car, he drove up to his villa; guided me to a torch-lit terrace overlooking the sea; gave me more wine, which made me mellow and completely open to him; and slowly undressed me and himself, kissing and fondling me in the process. He had the biggest cock I’ve ever seen on a man, which he spent considerable time getting inside me again. Once firmly mounted, he manipulated me into various athletic positions and fucked me through the night before returning me to my flat, well-fucked and with a rose stem in my teeth. He exhibited every bit of sexual prowess that he had claimed he could.

In the story version, he barebacked me, pumping me full of cum so that it dribbled out of my hole and down my inner thighs, and I could feel each of the multiple, gushing releases inside me.

The reality was that he drove me up several more levels of the hillside village in his Toyota sedan, turned into an alley between houses, where the garages were at the back of the lot, and drove into a garage and lowered the door behind us. There, inside the Toyota and the dark garage, he fondled and kissed me as he undressed me, forced me on my knees to give him head, and turned me away from him on all fours on the passenger seat as he grasped my hips between his hands and ate me out to where I was begging for the cock.

I was naked. He’d pulled his shirt off to reveal a manly, hirsute chest, but only unzipped and flared his trousers to release his shaft, which was mighty, but not as hung as ankara travestileri in the other version of my story. He moved over into the passenger seat and pulled me down into his lap, on the cock, facing him, and he fucked me there in his garage and in his Toyota. He guided and aided me in bouncing up and down on his cock with hands gripping, separating, and manipulating my glutes. He became more active in my rising and falling as we approached liftoff. I had one hand gripping his shoulder and the other stroking my cock when we both tensed, jerked, held, and shot our loads–me into his belly and the matting of his lower chest and Salvatore into the bulb of his condom.

We held, our panting coming under control for several minutes. I could tell he wasn’t finished. He wasn’t going soft. And, indeed, after a few minutes, he worked his way out from underneath me, going onto his knees in the driver’s seat, and putting me on my butt on the passenger seat, my back against the passenger door. He pulled the spent condom off and rolled another on. He grasped my ankles and put them on his shoulders. Then he hovered over me, I grunted and groaned as he penetrated again, and he fucked me in a longer, more languid, second coming, pulling me up near the end, reversing me onto my knees in the passenger seat, my cheek pressed against the passenger window, and my right hand under my belly, stroking myself off again, as he mounted and fucked me in the doggy position. I knew when we were finished why he had been so interested in my flexibility and athletic skills.

Ah, the vigor and staying power of mature Italian men. I had encountered the same all along my journey down the Ligurian Coast. In both versions–the erotic story and the reality–his sexual prowess was superb.

He was good for the cited fee, and he did drive me back to my flat, but there was no long-stemmed rose to hold between my teeth. It all happened quickly and quietly. I couldn’t help but think that perhaps Salvatore’s family–a wife and several kids–were in the house at the front of the lot, completely unaware that he was fucking a twenty-year-old, small stature, reddish-blond American man in their garage.

The story I wrote under the balcony light as the fingers of dawn stole in from the sea and into the harbor was a combination of inspiration, reality, and fantasy.

* * * *

Following the research method Brandon had taught me, after I’d dashed off the story of the encounter with the Italian count, I began to look down into the town as it tumbled down to the sea and observe the village coming to life along with the advance of dawn. My mind searched for inspiration for a mainstream story and I found it, first, in the appearance on the horizon of the sea of fishing boats returning to the village from an overnight sail, bringing their catch in for the morning market. They had been doing this for thousands of years, and my mind formed a story of the constant daily cycle of life–of handsome, muscular men in constant, practiced ballet motion.

While I was working on this, another inspiration intruded. In a nearby building two tiers down from my balcony, I saw a light go on in an uncurtained window. It was some sort of kitchen-dining area space. A woman in a housecoat appeared, soon to be joined by a man in work clothes. She fixed their breakfast and they sat silently side by side, seemly disconnected, while they ate it. He left. A short time ago, another man appeared in the room. The woman became more demonstrative to the presence of a man. They embraced. She pulled down a shade over the window before my voyeur experience could continue. It was not before I’d had an inspiration for a mainstream story though.

In this case, there also was a bonus, in that it gave me inspiration for a story for Brandon’s more private portfolio as well. At this moment, I worked more on this version of the story than the other, although I was later to write of two erotic versions, and, eventually, a few other nonerotic ones as well.

In the gay male version, the couple can be seen eating their breakfast in isolation from each other, but in this version, the man, younger than the woman, is just in briefs and a singlet and the woman is dressed for work. She leaves and shortly another man, wearing just athletic shorts, so evidently someone living in the building as well, enters. The two men embrace. The shades are not drawn on the window, and the storyteller voyeur watches the second man strip and lay the first man down on his back on the breakfast table and fuck him in the missionary position. In writing this up I had the choice of the original couple both being men.

Several stories, in the separate portfolios, with the single basic plotline. My portfolios were filling out, thanks to the inspiration that was all around me.

* * * *

Thinking of watching a man lay another one on table through a window two tiers of buildings down from my balcony had made me horny again. I was young and virile–always on the prowl, always willing and travesti ankara wanting to take cock. Brandon usually took care of me well, but Brandon wasn’t here now. Italian men were so sexy and commanding. It was like I was in a candy shop in terms of sexual servicing. Salvatore had given me a hint last evening on how to quickly pick up tricks in this village, adding that I was highly desirable to Italian men, many of whom were bisexual, not caring whether they were dipping their wick in a woman or man, as long as they could get hard and get off. Sex was sex was sex. Any means to sexual release was acceptable. All that was required from your partner was the ability to get you hard.

Dawn was grasping the harbor and the ranks of fishing boats spread out across the horizon of the sea were coming closer. I went back into my studio flat and dressed for action. I pulled on a red stringer T-shirt with deep slits on the side and that dipped down in front to show how well cut I was. Instead of briefs, I pulled on a red satin pouch thong. Over this I wore white mesh athletic shorts that didn’t hide the red thong underneath them. Open-toed sandals went on my feet.

Taking my laptop with me, I walked down through the warren of narrow streets to the waterfront, where the piers and quays of the yacht marina and fishing boat harbor lapped up to a wide, stone-floored square with taverns, markets, and other shops located around the periphery. Both women and men suspended their daily routines to ogle me–and all in disapproval; not all by any means–as I descended to the harbor. I found the low stone wall around a postage-stamp-sized park with an ancient, wide-branched tree in its center, and sat. This was the hookup spot Salvatore had told me about.

As I sat down, the first of the nighttime fishing boats reached land. I was entertained by the continued dance of beautiful, muscular male bodies preparing their catches for market and returning their boats to rest until the next time they were taken out. I watched an old, gnarled man, accompanied by a young boy, climb out of the first boat. He was hauling lobsters in small cages. He deftly took up four and the boy gamely was handed two, and the two of them–probably grandfather and a grandson learning to take over the boat, struggled off toward the fish market that was just opening for the day in anticipation of the fishing boat fleet’s return with fresh catches.

Here was a story inspiration for my mainstream portfolio. If I aged the boy, I could probably eke out a gay male story as well. If I didn’t age the young boy, there were special collections for that as well.

Not long afterward, the last of the fishing boats began to arrive. I sat there on the hookup wall, watching the fishermen come off the boats. They were of various ages. All were fit in keeping with the jobs they had. A few of them looked at me speculatively as they came off the boats. Two of them, burly, heavily muscular, dark and handsome men in their late twenties, each covered in tattoos, stopped as they came off the same boat, whispered to each other, and boldly stood in front of me at the wall.

Finding a willing young man sitting on the wall obviously was routine for them. The pleasure with which they ogled me told me that maybe they didn’t encounter that many handsome blond Americans here, though.

I stood and nodded. They smiled and nodded as well. I inclined my head and gestured with it toward the opening of one of the narrow streets that ascended the slope into the mountainside village. They both grinned at me. I turned and walked to the street opening and then, looking around only a few times to assure myself they were following, I ascended the steep street to the building where my vacation flat was located.

When I reached my building, I entered, propping the entrance door open with the brick provided there for the purpose. I did not check to see if the men were following. In the middle of the first flight of stairs up to my flat, I removed a sandal and dropped it. The other sandal was dropped on the flight after the first turn in the staircase. The string T-shirt was dropped on the next flight, and the white shorts on the last. I left the door to my flat open, from there you could see to the bed and the large French door windows out onto the balcony beyond.

When the two fishermen reached the entry to my flat, they were salivating. I was on all fours on the bed, wearing the red satin pouch, which left my hole exposed, and facing away from the door. The two burly fishermen stripped on the way to the bed. One dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, grasped my hips in his beefy, calloused hands, spread my cheeks with his thumbs, and buried his face in my crack. While he ate me out, the other one came up on the bed on his knees at my head and offered a very nice, half-hard cock for me to suck.

They both, one after the other, mounted and fucked me doggy style. After they’d each fucked me, leaving me stretched out on the bed on my belly, arm draped over the side, humming and panting low, they raided my refrigerator for beer, which they found and perched on the stools at the kitchen counter, chatting and congratulating each other for their find of a willing young American reddish blond.

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