Paul stood outside the entrance to the Club Townsend. The ramp leading up to its main door switched back and forth on itself like those narrow, mountain roads that he had bicycled in Veneto years before. He wondered how he had arrived at this spot, a place so different from the heart of Vicenza where he had spent the last few years of his adolescence.
Back then Paul lived a life that was carefree, almost Bohemian. On the small, monthly stipend sent to him by his parents, he rented a small flat and was able to travel and eat well. He made friends along the cities that dotted the east - west rail, from Milano to Venezia. They were mostly older, married men with wives and families who enjoyed some cock on the side. He even enjoyed the occasional tryst with a local, handsome priest who demonstrated far too much expertise than one might expect from a celibate cleric.
Paul thought of that first blow job in a doorway off the Piazza del Signore in the shadow of Palladio's great edifice. The priest pushed Paul against the heavy, wooden door and almost tore off Paul's pants. Then he knelt in supplication to Paul's rising cock, as if he was conducting mass before the altar. Paul knew that his cock was impressive, nine inches. His trim torso made it seem even bigger, a phallus worthy of worship. The Sacred Eucharist. The priest paused for a moment, looked down to arrange his cassock on the cobblestones, and then ravenously took Paul's cock into his mouth. Paul could hear him stroking his own cock beneath the folds of his black cloth. It took only a minute for Paul to explode inside the priest's mouth. Later, as they kissed deeply, Paul tasted the mild saltiness of his own cum for the first time.
During his time in Veneto, Paul enjoyed the adoration of many beautiful Italian men. He never felt lonely. What a contrast to the last nine months back in the States! After the initial two weeks as a collared boy, he began to feel taken for granted, neglected, nothing more than a trophy at the side of an older man.
More than twenty four hours had passed since Paul had sliced through his collar with a straight razor. For a few brief minutes, he had felt a rush of freedom, but that soon passed. Now he felt alone as he had stood on Folsom Street and watched the last few groups of men leave the clubs and backrooms. Without the collar, he felt abandoned in spite of the fact that he had removed it himself. He tried to imagine what his former sir might have said when he awoke alone with no one beside him.
For months now Paul had felt trapped. He had surrendered everything to his former sir: his apartment, his bank account, even his Leathers. In exchange Paul was given blue jeans, a pair of boots, a belt, and a leather coat.
"your Gear is Mine now. you'll have to earn it back piece by piece."
Paul liked the challenge, and he thought of the scenes that he won, rewarded not only with tangible Leather but also with a growing sense of self-worth. Scenes were more of a brutal sport than consensual sex to him. And when he played, he played to win.
Paul slowly moved his hand to the growing bulge within his jeans. He felt his cock slowly began to fill the left leg beside his hip pocket, the cock head slowly defining itself in indigo.
Paul thought of another man who had tried to tame him years before, a working class Vicentino who lived in the old section of the city. After moving to Vicenza, Paul bumped into this man about once a week. A coincidence, he first thought. But after an entire winter of chance meetings and furtive glances from his admirer, he realized he was being stalked. He met him in the Piazza returning to work after pranzo. He saw him at the market shopping for fresh produce. Paul even met him one day outside the Questura after renewing his student visa. This man was following him like a predator, driven more by instinct than intellect.
One warm June day Paul realized that this knowledge could be the catalyst that could reverse the dynamic of the hunt. Paul began noting the exact times of their encounters and the specific locations in the city. In anticipation, he prepped himself for these encounters dressed in tight t-shirts and tailored trousers cut close around the crotch to show off the bulge of his semi-erect nine inch cock. And he noted the growing look of hunger in the man's eyes as he nonchalantly said "ciao" and waved whenever they met.
After a few weeks Paul decided to follow his admiring predator throughout the maze of the old city until he discovered his lair down the crooked, cobblestoned lane of Corso Fogazzaro. From the recessed doorway of the latteria across the street, Paul watched the man in his flat on the second floor, and he planned his ambush.
The next day Paul dressed in his best trousers and shirt, unbuttoning it in the exagerated style of the Italian men to reveal the flair of dark hair that crowned his chiseled pecs. He walked to the flat at Corso Fogazzaro and knocked loudly on the old door.
Paul stopped suddenly in his reverie, moving from Italia back to the darkened streets of San Francisco. He smiled as he realized that he had been stroking himself through his jeans, and that a middle-age gentleman stood before him doing the same. The gentleman looked lost in his suit and disheveled tie. Obviously still tipsy from a night slumming for young men south of Market. "Blow you for fifty," he offered.
Paul nodded without hesitation and motioned across the street to the vacant ramp of Club Townsend. Fifty would get him home, back to Seattle. Together they crossed the street and Paul extracted his cock, already hard and dripping. As the man dropped to his knees, Paul's thoughts returned to the handsome, rugged Italian behind the door.
The handsome Italian man smiled at Paul. He was surprised to see him on his threshold. In an attempt to demonstrate that he was not taken off guard, the man stammered a greeting. Then he flashed a quick grin at Paul and invited him inside. Paul immediately felt his cock grow hard and he instinctively thrust his pelvis forward. The man's eyes moved down to Paul's crotch in response.
"Ga' fame?" asked the man in local dialect.
Paul nodded as he watched the man retreat to his kitchen to fetch a snack for him. Yes, he felt hungry. Italians were always gracious hosts even when taken by surprise. After a few minutes the man emerged with a plate of biscotti and two cups of espresso on a serving tray decorated with putti. He motioned to a half empty bottle of clear alcohol on the sideboard and Paul nodded. Paul enjoyed the local custom of serving coffee laced with grappa. Caffe' corretto.
The man set the espresso and Italian cookies on the sideboard and filled each cup with the volatile, sweet liqueur. Then he handed one of them to Paul. The aroma of the elixir beckoned and the man nodded to Paul as if in obeisance to the smiling cupids on the tray.
With one rude gulp, Paul downed the espresso. The quick rush of the alcohol mixed with caffeine made him more bold and he inserted his right hand into his unbuttoned shirt in a Napoleonic gesture. His pectoral felt round and firm beneath his hand. He carressed it gently until his fingers found their way to his erect nipple. His cock pulsed against the linen of his slacks. And Paul turned to face the man head on so that he could plainly see Paul's crotch bulge. The man cast his eyes down and his jaw dropped open slightly.
"Cazzo," he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on Paul's member.
Paul knew that he could wait no longer. Setting down the cup, he stepped toward the man, grabbed him firmly behind the head, and forced his mouth against his own. Paul grabbed the man around the waist and held him fast as he struggled to drive his tongue between the man's pursed lips. The man struggled, but not enough to push Paul away. A sure sign that Paul should continue. Paul felt his tongue push against the man's clenched teeth and he held the man even tighter against him, pushing his erection into the man's abdomen. Then Paul moved his hand down, grabbing the man's ass. His ass cheek was a hard mound of muscle. Paul felt the man suddenly loosen his jaw enough so that Paul could drive his tongue deep within, so that he could savor the still fresh taste of the grappa inside the man's mouth.
"No!" the man protested as he drew back. "Go famegia," he said motioning in the direction of the photo on the wall.
Paul looked and saw a woman and two younger girls in a gilded frame. The image of the man's family filled him with remorse and he drew back toward the door.
As soon as Paul drew away the man rushed to block his exit. Turning to face Paul, the man reached behind his back and locked the door. Then he looked directly at his victim, unfastened his belt, and stepped toward him. Paul immediately understood that he had no escape, that he had no choice but to submit. He smiled. This was far more than he had hoped for.
Without a word the man threw Paul up against the wall, yanked down his trousers, and shoved his hard dick against his asshole. Paul felt the man's uncut cock push against him and he tried to wrestle himself free. But the man held him against the wall, pressing Paul's face against the white plaster. Then he heard the man spit and felt a searing pain, the pain of a cock entering his tight asshole. Like a hot poker, he felt the man's erect cock ram into his insides and he felt himself cry out. The man continued, as if Paul's cry was encouragement, and he forced his cock deeper and deeper inside Paul's ass. Finally Paul succumbed, a helpless victim.
Paul felt his cock throb and he felt his load well up deep beneath his balls. Without warning, he shot, his engorged cock head throbbing in synch with his stifled moans.
Then Paul looked down. The Italian scene was gone. In its place, the empty ramp of Club Townsend and the gentleman in the suit and tie kneeling before him. A ribbon of cum covered the man's nose and lips.
"Fuck, that felt good," Paul growled to the gentleman, pocketing the fifty still clasped in his fist. "Thanks, buddy! That felt fuckin' great! I needed that."
Paul smiled. He honestly felt good. And as he patted his pocket with the fifty he knew that everything was going to be OK.
