A Mario and Luca Saturday

I was about at the end of my rope, my bumming through Europe on my university gap year trip was threatening to crash in the Santa Lucia seafront section of Naples, Italy. I’d left my bag at the desk of the Hotel Rex on Via Palepoli to pick up later, when and if I could scratch up enough to continue my stay in the hotel. I was almost down to bottom, though.

It was time to fall back on what had gotten me across Europe so far.

I went out to the Via Nazario Sauro, the seafront avenue on the Mediterranean, late Saturday morning, and crossed the road to the walkway along the beach. There was a wall I had heard about that one could sit on to attract attention and, for a young blond, good-looking, cut guy like me—or a female version of me—to attract seeking men with money to spend for sport. I sat on the wall across the avenue from an outdoor café under an awning. I smiled at those passing by, and I waited.

In time, I noticed two men sitting at a table in the café, at the sidewalk edge, drinking coffee and talking but also looking over at me, giving me the glad eye. One of them was a gray-beard, but an executive or academic type, with a distinguished aspect, very good looking, tall, trim, and elegantly dressed. He had to be in his late fifties. Sitting across from him was a young, stockier, more muscular dark-haired man. He had more of a thuggish, dangerous look, but on him it also looked good. He couldn’t be older than his early forties, I didn’t think, and there was more than half of something African in him. He was a chocolate brown, a creamier brown than would come from the sun.

There was a third chair at the table. It wasn’t long before the men saw that I was looking at them looking at me. It was well known, I had been told—and it had worked for me before—what someone was offering when they sat on this wall by the sea, sitting facing in, toward the city rather than out toward the Mediterranean. There was little chance the men at the table didn’t understand why I was there and what I was offering.

They smiled at me and I smiled back. The older of the two, the gray-beard, raised two glasses, which I took as an offer of a drink. It was close to noon. I had no idea where my next meal was coming from or anything beyond that. I could convince myself I was thirsty as well.

I crossed the avenue and sauntered up to beside their table.

“Sei un bel giovanotto. Vuoi sederti con noi? Possiamo offrirti da bere?” the older man, obviously the man who took the lead, said to me, smiling.

“Mi dispiace,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian well. Do you speak English?” It was embarrassing, but all Europeans spoke English better than most American travelers spoke anything else.

“Ah, English,” gray-beard said. “You are English?” There wasn’t anything wrong with his English. He spoke it as elegantly as everything else about him seemed to be elegant.

“No, American,” I answered.

“Ah American.” His voice was deeper, less elegant, but there wasn’t anything wrong with his English either, so he was at least one up on me. He said that like it was better to be American than English.

“Mario asked if you would like to sit with us; if you would take a drink with us.” This was spoken by the other man. “Come sit with us.”

I moved under the awning and sat between them, facing the sea. Luca immediately put a hand on my knee, signaling that we all knew exactly what was being contracted here. The other man—the older man who seemed to be the one with the money and to be orchestrating the encounter, Mario—signaled the waiter. “Would you like to see a menu too?” he asked me. “We would be happy to cover your noon meal.”

I said I was happy with that as well.

“Ah, perhaps near the end of your means?” Luca asked. He sounded like that was a good thing—like it would simplify what was to follow—so I just shrugged and smile. He handed me a menu.

When I had ordered, being quite aware that the second man’s hand had settled on my other knee, Mario spoke. “Luca didn’t translate what else I had said. I said that you were a very handsome young man. Since you say you are American, not a local, I have to ask if you know what it meant for you to be sitting on the wall over there.”

“Yes, I have been told.”

“You are a young man with a financial need?” Mario asked, giving me a sympathetic look. When I responded that yes, unfortunately, I was—that I’d found myself near the end of my funds, the hand of Luca, the younger, more sexually assertive of the two, moved under the table higher on my inner thigh. His thumb found the bulb of my shaft inside the material of my trousers. I gave him a smile and left it there. He started rubbing me softly there and, of course, I responded.

I could see out of the corner of my eye Mario taking a wallet out of his pocket and laying it on the table. The waiter brought our food and we engaged in chitchat while we ate. They found out quite a lot about me and what I was doing in Europe in that conversation, while I found out nothing about them. We did not discuss sex.

Over coffee, Mario said, “Now that we’ve eaten, would you perhaps be interested in spending the day with us?”

“Perhaps,” I said, fully aware that Luca was still feeling me up under the surface of the table.

Mario took two hundred-euro notes out of his wallet and laid them on the table. I could see that the wallet was stuffed with euro bills and that those two shouldn’t be missed.

“Perhaps?” Mario said. His hand went to cupping my basket as well. Luca’s thumb was still driving me wild. “Bello. Molto bello,” Mario murmured. I knew from his tone that he was pleased with what he felt. There was every reason to believe he should be.

“Yes, I would be happy to spend the day with you, Mario.”

“With us. We would both like to enjoy . . . your company.” Mario added a hundred-euro note to what I gathered was my pile, if I was cooperative. “May I assume you would be versatile for us?”

“I could be,” I answered. Two more bills dropped on the pile. There was five hundred euros in play now.

“Could be, or will be?”

“Yes,” I answered. This time instead of taking out another bill, Mario used his hand to take mine and place it on his basket. I shuddered. He was hung. It was somewhat of a surprise. It was the younger Luca who was coming on to me so heavily. It was surprised to find that the older of the two was hung.

“To be quite clear, I am asking if you’ll both give and take cock,” Mario asked, giving me a pointed look as well as a bit of shock to hear a man of his apparent refinement speaking so baldly.

“Yes,” I answered, “I can do that.”

“Good,” Mario said, reaching over and taking two more bills out of his wallet, combining them with those that had already appeared before me, folding them, and tucking them in my pocket. “Shall we go and have a splendid day now? What do you think, Luca, perhaps our shop first? I think maybe the Club Alexander tonight. Our friend here is nicely tanned. I see him in white. Do you agree?”

“Yes, exactly,” Luca agreed.

“My name is Ben,” I said, as we rose from the table.

“How nice for you,” Mario responded, telling me pretty clearly that it wasn’t my name they were interested in receiving from me. “Non è un piccolo pezzo sexy?” he said to Luca and each of them took one of my arms and led me into the city.

“Dovrebbe essere grande a letto. Separare prima o insieme?” Luca answered.

I knew enough Italian to know that Mario thought I was a sexy piece and Luca, the “let’s get right to the point one” guy, was wondering how they should do me first.

Oh, well. I did need the money and I’d gone with far worse men than either of these—although usually one at a time. Andrebbe bene—this would be fine.

Was Luca as hung as the older one was? Was Mario a “sleeper” here? Would he prove to be the crueler, more taxing, one?

* * * *

It was 3:30 Saturday afternoon, out on the Tyrrhenian Sea off Naples in Mario’s fifty-eight-foot 1971 Trumpy Cruiser, and I was earning my pay. The motor yacht was at anchor, the wheel lashed down, and I, naked, as I had been since shortly after we’d motored out of the Borgo Marinari yacht basin at the tip of the Santa Lucia district of Naples, close to where the two men had picked me up, was lashed to the wheel. Backed against the wheel, my arms were lashed to the wheel and my ankles were on Luca’s shoulders.

Mario, in cajoling me to permit myself to be bound to the wheel, had said the “lashed to the wheel” part was psychological, to enhance arousal. I thought it was physical enough—and sexy as hell. My eyes were watering, my mouth was slack in a yawn, crying out ineffectively to the wind whipping across the pilot room from the sea. The stocky, muscular black stud was gripping, squeezing, and separating my buttocks cheeks, while he fucked the shit out of me with a godawful thick cock.

Mario was sitting close enough on a bench, watching his younger partner fuck me, that he was able to touch me with his hands, stroke my cock, and murmur encouragement to me in taking the African-Italian’s shaft.

Luca paused, both of us shuddering, lifted his face toward the heavens, and trumpeted his victory as he jerked, spouted, jerked again and came again, filling out the bulb of his condom. He was finished, but both he and Mario, although they had jacked my cock, had carefully not let me come yet. Luca unlashed me from the ship’s wheel, and, running an arm under my waist, turned me and set me down between Mario’s spread knees. “Now you, he murmured.”

Mario had his cock erect and in his hand. He cupped the back of my head and moved me into position to take his shaft in my mouth, which I did. Taking over the stroking of my cock, myself, I gave Mario head as he ran his fingers into my blond curls and held me in place.

“Mangiami. Mangiami fuori adesso—Eat me; eat me out now,” Mario murmured, his voice thick with lust. He’d paid the bill. I rolled the buttocks of the old, but nicely muscled, trim, and handsome man up and pressed my face and tongue into his buttocks crack, working on his hole. He panted hard, still holding my head close into his body, and raising and spreading his legs, which Luca stood behind me and held for a few minutes, before crouching down beside me, putting hands under me and rolling a condom on my cock.

I was going to be allowed to blow now. Luca helped me stand, crouch, and go into position between the legs that Mario how held raised and spread himself. The older man cried out as I penetrated and then we were rocking together, Mario huffing and panting and me, fucking him, grunting. My grunts turned into groans, as Luca mounted me from behind, invaded me with his cock.

I was fucking Mario and Luca was fucking me. A thousand euros no longer was looking like such an easy get. The motor yacht, with no other ship close enough to us for anyone to see the action on the yacht, bobbed gently up and down in the waves moving in from the Tyrrhenian Sea into Naples Bay.

* * * *

The source of Mario and Luca’s wealth turned out to be a men’s fashion house on the Via Santa Lucia near the Giardini Pubblici gardens in front of the Royal Palace of Naples, the Palazzo Reale. I was flattered when Mario said he had been drawn to me because I looked like a male model and he had wondered how I would look in his fashions.

“Would you mind modeling some of my fashions for me and then we will go out in the Sexy Ragazzo.”

“The what?” I asked, as we were walking toward the palace area from the café.

“The Sexy Ragazzo—my boat, the Sexy Boy. I want to go out on the sea for Luca and I to enjoy you.”

“Uh, OK, what kind of clothes do you make?” I asked.

“Sexy ones, of course,” Mario said, and laughed. “This, after all, is Italy.”

So, much of the day was planned already. But Mario and Luca enjoyed me before we ever got out to sea.

Luca went off to check on business at the fashion house, leaving Mario and me alone in a large upper-story room that must have been their design and playground room combined.

“Toditi i vestiti—Oh, sorry, take your clothes off, please,” Mario said when we were alone.

“Where do you want us to fuck?” I asked, pulling my polo shirt over my head. He’d paid 700 euros for fucking today. The day wasn’t getting any younger. There obviously was no need for shyness here.

“Over there on that chair by the window. But not yet, thank you. You are model perfect. I want to see how some of the clothes in my new line fit on you, and we have to find something for you to wear at the club tonight.”

So, they haven’t just paid me for the day—it’s for the evening and maybe the night as well.

I looked over at the chair, which was one of those newfangled thin-base, curved chairs that looked like a space-age recliner. I wondered how we were going to do it on that contraption. As I stripped off my trousers and Mario handed me what looked like a mechanic’s one-piece coverall in a pale yellow, I examined the chair, trying to figure out what the best position to use on it. Mario was to show me the position he wanted me in, though. And I didn’t have the wildest idea what he’d do with me while I was in that position.

The next half-hour, though, went to me putting on his designer clothes and Mario dancing around me, murmuring, “Sì, sì. Perfetto. Divino,” to himself and snapping off photos.

When he wanted something different, something more, he came in close to me as I was stripping off a sexy bathing suit that was hardly anything at all, and took my lips with his. His hand slid under the waistband of the thong, pulled my cock out, grasped it, and he frotted his together with mine as we kissed.

Here we go, I thought.

As I had been exchanging clothes in his line that had gone from street clothes to the intimate, he had slowly been stripping down too, so that, when the last bathing suit was coming off, he was naked. His body was very good for a man his age—trim, but still hard muscled, and he had carefully groomed his body hair. It was there, descending from gray with hints of auburn in swirls around his pecs, down an increasingly darkened line to still more auburn than gray in his trimmed pubic V. He was in full erection, as was I, neither one of us having anything to be ashamed of.

“Lie in the chair now, Per favore,” he murmured when we’d come out of the kiss.

“Belly or back?” I asked.

“Whatever you wish. I will take you from both sides.”

That gave my body a little shimmer—not just the image of it, but the matter-of-fact baldness with which he said it. I wasn’t a professional prostitute, but this must be the businesslike tones used in such transactions, I thought. I found it arousing. Naked, I walked over to the window and stretched out in the fancy, thin-based recliner on my back. I grasped my cock, stroking it and filling it out. Mario walked over to the chair, climbed up on it and straddled my hips, placing his knees on either side of them. He leaned down to me, taking my head between his hands, and we kissed again.

“How do you want this to work?” I asked. “Do I fuck you or do you—?”

“Blow me. Then I sound you and you fuck me.”

“Sound? What is—?” But he already raised over my chest and was holding my head in place, pressing the bulb of his erection to my lips. I opened to let him in, He wanted to go deep, and there was nothing more to be said for a while, while he held my head in position and fucked my throat.

When I had taken and swallowed his ejaculation, fighting a gagging reflex, he took my left wrist and moved it to the top edge of the chair. It was only then that I saw that restraints could be pulled from in back of the corners of the chair head. He got my left wrist restrained and reached for the right one.

“No, wait. What are you—?”

“Shh, Mario said, putting a finger on my mouth. You’ll enjoy it. But if you’re reluctant . . .”

Not finishing that, he climbed off me, and walked over to a desk. My left wrist was restrained so I wasn’t going anywhere right away. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out some condom packets, a bottle of lube, a popper bottle, a leather case, and some euro bills. He flashed the euros, showing me three hundred-euro notes. These he stashed a pocket of my trousers that were puddled on the floor. This now was earning me a thousand euros for the day—enough to tide me over for several days.

He returned with the rest, put it on a side table, took my right wrist in his hand and gave me a meaningful look. “Sei soddisfatto?—Are you satisfied? Is it good with you and we can proceed?”

“Yes,” I answered. It was a hesitant “yes,” but it was a thousand-euros “yes.” Then he lifted and restrained my right wrist to the top corner of the chair. He didn’t stop there, though. There were restraints at the bottom corners of the curved recliner as well, and he restrained my ankles. It didn’t stop there. I hadn’t seen what else he’d taken out of the drawer. Before I could get out more than the beginning of an objection, he had popped a ball gag in my mouth and tied it off.

I was now fully his, at his complete mercy, under his control.

And, God damn, what he did to me then! I was shuddering and trembling from the thought of it months later.

* * * *

He pulled the first of the metal wands, the narrowest one, out of a leather case and held it up to show it to me, twirling it in the air. He was holding my cock erect with his other hand. My eyes bugged out and I made muffled objections through the rubber ball gag he’d popped in my mouth and were, I’m sure, unintelligible to him but that screamed bloody murder in my mind. I was trying to writhe around him, but, being tied down at the four points and swallowed in the close embrace of the recliner and Mario straddling my calves and leaning over me, looking intently into my eyes, smiling and nearly licking his lips, I was his captive. I’d heard of sounding before. I knew what it was. I’d just not given it much thought. I certainly had never thought of it being done to me.

When he’d first opened the case, shown it to me, and told me what I was going to do, I’d squirmed on the chair. He got up, retrieved the ten hundred-euro notes from my trousers, held them up for me to see, and fanned them out on the nightstand. His message was clear. I could settle down or he’d withdraw the money.

“Nod if you still want this money, if you are still going to let Luca and me play with you today,” he said.

I fucking needed the money. I nodded.

I settled down, resigned, but no less fearful. He helped by opening the bottle of poppers and giving me several calming whiffs. Periodically while sounding me, he stopped to give me another hit of the poppers. They did help.

But now he was holding a metal wand in one hand and my dick in the other. He was going to do it. I couldn’t help but shudder and try to pull away from him.

“Sii fermo. Calmati—Be still. Calm down,” Mario murmured. “You’ll want to hold very still for this. You’ll love it. This is very sexy. You’re my sexy boy. Make me happy. This is all to help me harden and lengthen to give you the best to times later.” He moved the hand not holding the sounding rod to his erection and stroked himself as I was fighting to calm down.

I tensed, going rigid, and, getting the heels of my feet dug into the edge of the chair and pressing down on my shoulder blades, lifted my pelvis, trembling, and moaning. The slight bulb of the wand was pressed to the urethra slit of my cock. I was only helping him, though, in positioning myself. I shuddered, shut my eyes tightly, and my moan turned into a groan, as I felt the wand enter and slowly twirl down into my urethra canal.

“Breathe. You must breathe, and try to relax,” Mario commanded. “It will feel wonderful—very sexy-if you just go with it, don’t fight it. Ci divertiremo così tanto io e te—We will have such a good time, you and me.”

I moaned then as the wand was twirled half way out of my cock. But abruptly stopped, and I groaned and arched my back as he twirled it back down in the channel before pulling it all the way out. I opened my eyes. Mario was looking at me intently. “Buono. Molto bene. There, wasn’t that nice?”

I’m sure the wild look in my eyes told him it wasn’t very nice, but I couldn’t help but show that it also was sexy as hell. I remained ramrod hard. He put the wand back in the case, and, still holding my cock erect with one hand, gave himself several strokes of his own cock with his other hand. Then he reached in for the next larger wand and pulled it out. He lifted it up for me to see. Surprisingly then, he proceeded to twirl it down into his own urethra slit and join me in the sounding. When he took it out of his cock, he moved it to mine, and I moaned deeply as he twirled it into my cock slit.

I collapsed into the chair as the third, longer, thicker wand was deftly twirled slowly down into my cock. And when I relaxed, like with any sex, the pleasure of the sensation of penetration and possession of me by another man overlay the whatever pain there might have been. Mario obviously was adept at this. He had the touch of a surgeon. When the wand was at its greatest depth, Mario moved it in and out, ever so slowly, giving it a twirl as he did so. I moaned deeply in one prolonged sigh as he fucked my cock with the wand.

“There, now it feels nice, sexy, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Now you are appreciating it.”

I couldn’t have disagreed with him, even if I hadn’t been bound and gagged.

He raised himself over me, hovering over me, one end of the wand buried in my cock. He positioned himself over the other end of the wand, and slowly, holding his shaft in one hand and stiff-arm supporting himself with his other fist pressed to the chair surface beside my hip, buried his cock on the wand. He made the wand move inside us both, in and out, until, with a sigh and a “Basta—that’s enough,” he withdrew from his side of the wand. He wasn’t finished twirling it in and out of me, though.

By the fourth wand I had surrendered to it and it, indeed, was very sexy and the tenor of my moans had changed—as had my response to the invasion of the wands. As they twirled into me, I was rocking toward them a bit, going with the fuck of my shaft.

The fifth wand was the highlight I’d never forget. Mario shifted his body, hovering over me. I watched, eyes wide, the fifth largest of the wands buried half in my shaft, as Mario slowly impaled his own urethra canal on the other end of the wand a second time, bringing our two bulbs together, kissing, sharing the wand. This time he brought both of us to a very intimate completion. He was uncut and docked the foreskin of his shaft over my bulb, and he stroked our docked cocks together, joined by the wand, until both of us has released our seed.

Luca came back while Mario was packing the wands back up in the leather case. He laughed.

“Ti ha dato un buon tempo?” Luca asked.

“Sì, un ottimo momento,” Mario answered.

I’m not sure I wanted to know what they said, but I understood what Mario said next. “Vuoi scoparlo adesso?—Do you want to fuck him now?”

“Si. Help me turn him over.”

I was two exhausted and wasted to fight them as they came to either side of me, undid my restraints, turned me over, belly to recliner, and restrained me again.

Mario sat and watched, putting his hands on me, stroking me with them, as Luca, first, knelt behind me, pressed his face in my crack, and ate me out.

“He’s got a nice hole. Opens right up,” Luca said while he was fucking me with his fingers. And then he was on top of me, stretched out on my body as I lay, belly to recliner, mounted and penetrated me, and fucked the stuffing out of me with his black, beer-can cock.

This, at least, was sex as I was used to it being.

It was later in the afternoon, after we’d all cleaned up and had drinks at the fashion house office, smoothing over any rancor I might have harbored at the sounding, that they walked me down to the yacht basin at the Borgo Marinari, at the base of the Santa Lucia District peninsula, and I found that Mario had a honking big old-fashioned teak motor yacht.

And that was how I wound up not long before the sun started to sinking into the sea toward the west, first, lashed to the ship’s wheel while Luca fucked me again in a knees-hooked-on-hips missionary and then I fucked Mario for the first time on the bench and Luca saddled up behind me and fucked me again while I was fucking Mario.

After that, they let me rest, laid out on the top of the awning covering the back of the motor yacht, naked, and sunbathing, while Mario and Luca went down to a cabin and fucked.

The clothes that Mario had picked out for me and said I could have—and that, I’m sure, were worth a small fortune—were white silky trousers, very tight across the pelvis and very low rise, with a mesh white tank top to go on top—very sexy and revealing and going extremely well with my tan and blond hair. It reveals that I had little gold rings in my nipples and my belly button. Luca had a menacingly big ring in his cock, which made me shudder and shimmer, and he was wearing black trousers that showed that he had the ring to anyone interested in looking. Mario was as elegantly dressed as ever, so we were quite a noticeable trio when we ate dinner in the early evening at Antonio & Antonio on the seafront near the marina on the Via Partenope.

As the meal was coming to a conclusion, I turned to Mario and said, “I hope I didn’t disappoint.” If they were willing to pay for another day like they paid for this, the taxing of the sounding notwithstanding, I was game.

“Oh, the day we paid for from you isn’t anywhere close to be over,” Mario said, with a smile. Luca tightened the grip he had on my thigh under the table.

And, indeed, the day they were paying for wasn’t anywhere close to being over yet.

* * * *

Club Alexander, the gay club Mario and Luca took me to that evening, was just a block over, on Via Chiatamone, from the restaurant. The club’s bar fronted on the street, but we were guided through that by a host—or hostess; I really couldn’t tell what gender the host was—to a room behind that with a stage, a dancefloor and a live band. It was Saturday night, so the place was crowded—all by men, although you wouldn’t have known that from a cursory glance. This obviously was a drag club. The host/hostess who escorted it to our seats was beautifully made out. It was mainly the low register of his voice that gave him away.

Three sides of the room were outfitted as alcoves screened off on three sides by silken drapes. The alcoves opened to the room, where there were some tables swirling around a dancefloor, all facing a raised platform on which a band, in drag, was playing backup to a tall, buxom, zaftig singer in drag, who was lip-singing to a Carol Channing breathy song. The tables were well occupied but so was the dancefloor.

Mario gestured for me to slide around to the middle of the bench seat at the back of the alcove we were taken to. It was a strategically placed alcove with a good view of the stage, dancefloor, and everything else, and the host/hostess swept two placards off the table as we sat. One said “Reserved” and the other one said “Christina’s Table.” Obviously, Mario and Luca were known here and had been accepted. I had no idea who Christina was.

“Who’s Christina?” I asked Mario.

He laughed. “Christina owns this club, and here she is now.”

The zaftig singer had concluded “her” song, was being replaced by another singer in drag, and came down off the stage and approached our alcove.

“È questo il giovanotto che hai portato per Christina stasera, Mario?”

“English, Christina, please. This is our friend for today, Ben. He’s young and beautiful, as you can see. He also gives and takes the cock divinely—don’t you, Ben? He’s American, so we parlare inglese con lui—speak English with him, shall we?”

“Wonderful. Shall we sit and have a drink?—on the house, of course.” Waiters appeared magically and took our drink orders as Christina slid into the bench seat beside me. Mario and Luca were sitting in chairs on the others side of the table, the chairs angled so they both could watch the stage and converse with Christina and me at the same time.

“Christina was asking if we brought you to her as a gift tonight. We are good friends. We share our good fortunes with Christina. I’m sure you don’t mind. This is still your day with us.”

The implication was clear. We were still on the clock for the thousand euros I had been given to cover the day. And they could share me like I was a party favor, if they liked. In any event, they didn’t wait for me to accede to the arrangement, which now included a bulky figure in full drag, blond beehive wig, monumental breasts, stiletto red heels, and all. Christina, in keeping with a drag club diva, was larger than life, boisterous, and all hands on me as we chatted, drank our drinks, and watched the singers come and go on stage. Regardless of the request to speak English, the three of them talked mainly in Italian. They made little effort to include me other than Christina’s wandering hands that fully knew me before our first drinks were gone and had been replaced by a second round. I think something had been put in my second drink because that’s when I started to feel woozy and floating above it all.

The singer on stage was lip-synching a run of slow, melancholy tunes, and Christina took my hand and said, “Come, sexy Ben, dance with me,” as she dragged me out from behind the table in the alcove and, even though I was getting a little hazy, we were out on the crowded dancefloor, with Christina towering and hovering over me, holding me close. She was dressed as a woman and I was the man, but she, of course, took the lead. She also held me close to her body, with her left arm embracing my torso and her strong right hand on the small of my back, pulling my pelvis close into hers. She was in massive erection and wanted me to know she was. We stood there, in one place, rocking against each other. If we hadn’t been wearing clothes, we’d be fucking.

Twenty minutes later, Christina was fucking me. We returned to the table, me increasingly going hazy, and, when we slid around on the bench seat, she brought me into her lap. As Mario and Luca watched us, Christina fondled me, covered me in kisses, slipped my trousers and briefs off, pulled the hem of her dress up to reveal she wore nothing underneath, and put me on her cock. I was facing out toward and leaning down into the table, as Christina grasped my waist between her strong hands and raised and lowered me on her thick shaft.

As the fuck progressed, with everything else in the club continuing as it had been, with no indication everyone knew I was being fucked at Christina’s table, although I’ll bet similar acts were going on in other alcoves, Christina cupped my chin and pulled my head back into her bosoms. Her other hand palmed my belly, and she continued pulling me on and off her shaft. Only half conscious, but surrendering to the evening, I bent my legs, pressing my feet into the base of the bench, and rode the cock. It was thick and long, and I could tell that it had a big bead pierced in its bulb. She had a way of dragging that along my channel walls that had my passage muscles undulating over the shaft and shimmering. I almost wished I had been fully conscious to enjoy it.

Mario and Luca sat there, drinking, and watching. I now knew how they managed to get such good service at the Club Alexander. For the record, Christina had a very nice cock, and she knew how to use it.

As we were leaving, Christina waved away our bill, saying, “As long as you bring me presents, Honey, you’ll always be welcome here.”

“Perhaps you’re free to join us for the rest of the evening,” Mario said.

Christian giggled her availability.

* * * *

The Grand Hotel Vesuvio was located on the same street with the restaurant where we had dinner. The hotel room was a whole lot plusher than the one I’d been in at the nearby Hotel Rex and would be in again for the next couple of days thanks to what I earned this day. The room had two double beds. We were using both. I had no idea how we got here. The last I remembered before being here and on my back on one of the beds was that Christina was fucking me at her table at Club Alexander—and was doing a very good job of it.

Mario, naked and in erection, was hovering over me on the bed. I was on my back, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress, as he sat beside me, holding my cock erect with one hand, and twirling the second sounding wand down into my cock with the other. I was holding his wrist with one hand and cupping his cheek with the other, my thumb in his mouth. He was sucking my thumb and humming while he worked. This time I wasn’t bound or anything. I was letting him sound me and I was moaning my pleasure. I could get used to this form of sex. I was dancing on the clouds. That could have been thanks to the drugs they had given me at Club Alexander, but, for the moment, I was doing just fine.

Luca and Christina weren’t watching Mario sound me. They were otherwise occupied at the foot of the other bed. I don’t know where the young, dark-headed guy, probably no older than I was—and not any bigger came from, but he looked like he’d been slipped drugs too. Luca and Christina had the young man between them, in a standing crouch. Christina was facing the youth, whose knees were hooked on her hips. Her dress was gone, but not her blonde wig. She had on a black lace bra, hefting big breasts; black mesh stockings, held up by a black garter belt; and the red stiletto heels. Her dick was even bigger than I’d realized when she was fucking me at the club. Luca was behind the young guy, his arms embracing the youth’s chest. The youth had his head lolled back into Luca’s chest as they fucked him in a double. The expression on his face was slightly pained, but vacant. He was out of it. He also had two big dicks churning inside him. Christina and Luca were engaged in some lip locking over the young guy’s shoulder.

Mario only used two wands on me before he got too excited to continue. He put the case of wands aside, mounted his ass on my pelvis, descended on my throbbing erection, and rode me to our mutual ejaculations in a cowboy.

The next I knew I was on the other bed, Christina under me and inside me, as I was looking up at the ceiling, and Luca was climbing on top of me, between my thighs, grasping my ankles and wishboning my legs. I wasn’t so far out of it that I didn’t know I was now getting two big dicks inside me and that they were pumping me. I focused on the ceiling tiles, opened my mouth in a continuous wail, and took it and took it and took it. Mario was sitting on the side of the other bed, playing with his cock and watching me get DPed. I have no idea where the other little guy had gone. I might even have imagined him, I suppose, thinking ahead to when it was me sandwiched between Christina and Luca.

Christina was the biggest inside me, but it was Lucas’s cock that was pumping me. He released my ankles and I hooked my knees on his hips and rocked with the fuck, digging my fingernails in his biceps and flexing my fingers digs to the rhythm of his thrusts. Christina cupped my chin and turned my head, flicking her tong in and out of my ear, going with the rhythm of the taking.

When I woke the next morning, I was all alone in the room. My clothes—both the clothes I had started off the previous day wearing and the nifty and expensive white ensemble Mario had given me to club in—were folded neatly on a nearby chair. My money, plus a two-hundred-euro bonus, was tucked in a trouser pocket.

They hadn’t stiffed me. They all been stiff for a full day, though, and worked me over mercilessly and relentlessly. I had a slight headache from the drugs and, of course, I ached “down there” from constant use.

It had been a good day—certainly profitable. I could manage for another week in Naples now.

I have no idea if the hotel room had been paid for. I showered and slinked out of the place, headed back to the Hotel Rex to check back in there and retrieve my other clothes.

* * * *

It was the next Friday already. I’d been frugal with the money I’d earned the previous Saturday, but I was on the cusp of needing some more if I wanted to get established comfortably at my next stop. I wanted to go to Florence from here, one of my primary targeted goals. I would be an art student when I entered college next fall, I hoped. Florence was a main stop on this “opening to life” trip.

I’d seen everything of Naples I needed to see. But for that little extra I’d need to get to Florence and get settled in there, I needed to take a walk today, Friday. It was a beautiful day out, so this would be a good day to do it. It had taken me a couple of days to recover from the previous Saturday. But 1,200 euros—plus a nifty clubbing ensemble—that was the best haul yet for one day during this trip. Not that I didn’t earn every euro of it. And not that I didn’t enjoy most the day, either.

With memories of the previous weekend, I walked out onto the seafront avenue, Via Nazario Sauro, and down toward the café where I’d hooked up with Mario and Luca. As I grew closer to that, I saw that the two of them were there, at the same table where I’d met them the previous Saturday. Could I take another Saturday with them? Would them want me for another Saturday?

It didn’t much matter. I hadn’t come too close to them when I saw Mario wave to a guy on the seafront wall across the avenue. It looked sort of like the other young dark-haired guy I’d caught a glimpse of being doubled by Luca and Christian in the Grand Hotel Vesuvio hotel room. But I couldn’t be sure. In any case, he acknowledged Mario’s wave and crossed the avenue to their table.

So much for that.

I retraced my steps and found a place on the same wall closer to the center of Naples. I sat there, not having to wait too long.

I watched him approach from a distance. He had the gait of a seamen and was dressed sort of how I would expect a commercial sailor on shore leave would be dressed—jeans and a tight T-shirt over a body-builder muscular chest. He was all beef—not tall, but solid. Big, but not fat. He was from somewhere in the Middle East, I thought. I could tell his body was hirsute, but his head was close to bald—a tight buzz cut to hide that he was going bald, I thought.

Our eyes met and remained engaged as he came over to me.

“Para için bir erkekle mi gitmek istiyorsun?” he said when he stopped in front of me. He reached out with a hand. The back of his hand was covered with curly black hair. I shuddered, but I didn’t pull away when he touched me on the arm with his fingers.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Italian. Do you speak English? I’m an American.” I could pretty much count on everyone being able to speak English in Europe. I’d gotten along with just English so far—well, and a good body and sunny blond hair, with blue eyes.

He laughed. “Not Italian. Turkish. I speak Turkish. I’m a Turk.”

“Sorry,” I said, “Your English is good, though.” It certainly was better than my nonexistent Turkish . . . and Italian, among other European languages.

“I’m sailor. Just stopping here. At sea on freighter for long time. Randy. How, you say, need to get my nuts off.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that said before,” I answered. I put my hand on top of his on my arm—just to let him know I didn’t mind it being there.

“I asked if you did it for money. I’m told that guys sitting on this wall will do it for money. You will do it for me?”

I’d do him almost for free was by thought. He looked like one rough hunk. I looked at his basket. Yes, I’d almost do him for free. “500 euros,” I said.

“300, if you have the room.”

“I have the room—and the rubbers.” Might as well establish I wouldn’t bareback for a Turkish sailor, I thought. “It’s near here. 400 euros.”

“350 and I do you better than you ever been done before.”

“OK, 350,” I said. I was still thinking I was in the mood of going under him just for the pleasure of it.

“Güzel. Daha önce hiç bir Amerikalıyla yatmıştım. Amerika'nın Türkiye'de her zaman siki vardır.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I said it was nice that I could fuck an American—that America always has its dick in Turkey.”

I laughed. “My name is Ben. For 350 euros you can put your dick in me.”

“Just once?”

“As many times as you want.”

“I’m Jamal,” he answered, with a grin. “I give great fuck. You’ll see.”

I saw.

It was close to the best I had, since I was in the mood for rough. He was hung and all muscle, and he was mean. He clearly had been at sea without it for a long time. He slapped me around, coming close to beating me down. He did strap me with his belt when he’d beaten me into submission in my Hotel Rex room, and then he fucked me rough and hard. I’d had Turks before. He was definitely a Turk with me—a conqueror, taking no prisoners. Three loads before supper. The last time I was just stretched out on my back, arms and legs spread, eyes glazed over and mouth blowing bubbles, and he was on top of me, enjoying himself, all by himself, doing pushups on my tired and broken body.

He left me whimpering and doing an inventory for damage—but purring. There was no one for a good rough fuck better than a Turk. And one who had been at sea for months without getting his rocks off . . .

He must have been pleased. He left me 400 euros. That was more than enough to cover my flight to Florence. I went business class to assuage my aches and bruises from what I’d done to earn it.