That familiar tingle of sexual expectation and adventure stirred my balls as I approached the well-lit exterior of the bar. I peered through the front windows as I moved towards the door, seeing a small crowd of people dressed in European fashion. Even though my first impression of the place was one of cool reserve and aloofness, I took a deep breath, pulled open the door and walked in like I owned the place.

I had walked hurriedly along deserted streets in a gloomy looking, industrial section of Milan, Italy, feeling horny and alone on that foggy, drizzly, midwinter evening which had held little promise of excitement. The business I had conducted in Milan had gone extremely well, but had kept me so occupied the only sexual outlet I could find time for was my handy five-fingered penis-hugger - not that I'm complaining. Anyone who reads my stuff knows I thoroughly enjoy jacking off and have never found it unsatisfactory, or less preferable than other sexual activities. But now, finally, I had a free night to myself, and with my pocket-sized European Gay Guide to rely upon, I figured any effort I made would probably produce results, as usual. The guide implied that, where gay sex is concerned, Milan was nothing like Amsterdam, but suggested that rewarding contacts were possible. This place, which was called the "American Bar and Cafe," was recommended for the discreet businessman. I figured I fell into that category even though I was dressed in black jeans, white tee-shirt and well-worn leather jacket, and looked younger, I felt sure, than my late twenties.

Hardly a head turned when I entered. I glanced around to get my bearings, went over to the large, long bar, and stood alone in the middle of a section with no barstools. After a moment, a bartender came over to me. He smiled. I smiled back. He then surprised me by asking me, in French, what I'd like to drink. (And I thought I looked so American.) Without really thinking about it, though, I responded in French, ordering a cocktail. He smiled again, and went off to mix the drink for me.

As I waited, I turned and looked down the bar. Standing about fifteen feet from me, and the first thing that caught my eye, was a strikingly handsome Italian man. He was a few years younger than I; was dressed in fashionably tailored trousers, a silken shirt, and a stylish jacket; and was staring directly at me. I smiled shyly, startled by his bold staring. It seemed so unlike the behavior of other Italian men I had met.

His reaction to my smile was to move towards me with a big grin on his face, acting almost like he knew me. Then, in French, he asked, "You are a foreigner, are you not? Are you French?" I guess he'd overheard my exchange with the bartender.

"No," I replied, in English, "I'm an American."

"Oh!" he said in a disappointed way, the grin fading from his handsome features.

I assumed he was just another European who didn't like Americans and I figured we wouldn't be getting it on together even though my hopes had been momentarily raised very high. He sure was good looking.

Under his breath and in a tone I almost couldn't hear, he said, in French, "I don't speak English." He sounded both disappointed in and annoyed with himself.

Mustering all my courage, and drawing on a classically educated gay man’s under-standing of operatic Italian, mixed with a good ear for language and enough time spent in Italy - and at Italian movies - to make it just possible, I asked him, in Italian, "Posso comprare da bere?" The oldest pick-up line in the world - "Can I buy you a drink?"

The gleaming, white-toothed smile that broke out on his face lifted my spirits as high as his seemed to soar. Apparently, I had selected exactly the right question to ask, regardless of my ability to pronounce it correctly.

His response was, "Sono Franco." I knew that meant, "I am Franco." He was introducing himself to me.

"Jack," I said, simply, extending my hand. He took it and shook hands with an enthusiasm I was happy to return. I guess we both realized we could overcome any language barrier that might be between us. I felt here was a guy I'd really like to get to know better, relieved it wasn't an anti-American feeling that had stalled him, and hoping in the back of my mind, as we all hope in these situations, that we'd end up in bed together.

The bartender returned with my drink and Franco leaned in and ordered two more drinks, one for himself and one more for me, to be put on my bill, in a transaction I understood more from the gestures than from the rapid-fire Italian exchanged between the two of them.

For a minute we just stood there grinning at one another as we waited for his drink. It arrived more promptly than had mine. We lifted our glasses to one another, muttered favored toasts under our breaths, clinked the glasses together and took a drink. I took a good slug of mine for moral support.

Franco and I didn't really hold a conversation. His French actually proved even more limited than my Italian. We'd smile and look around and listen to the British and American music being played and bump into each other as we moved about while standing there at the bar, almost as if dancing together. But we were both content in the understanding of the developing level of attraction between us. He called over three of his friends and introduced them and then seemed extremely well pleased when I called the bartender over and ordered another round of drinks to include all of us and to be put on my bill. Each of them told the bartender what he was drinking, and for a while there were five of us not really holding a conversation but smiling and standing around and bumping one another as we moved. It was like a surreal play. I could see that we all seemed to be enjoying each other's company, but there was nothing being said to me of any consequence.

Yet, as I stood beside Franco, amused by his easy banter with his buddies, I became aware that he never left my side, never let one of his friends separate us or come between us. Even while he was talking excitedly about something I couldn't quite follow because of the too rapid exchanges in Italian, he made sure that he kept eye contact with me, or pressed his arm against mine, or bumped his leg against mine.

I realized that this was developing into a very explicit sexual ritual between the two of us. His hand would seemingly inadvertently brush against my buttocks. He'd say something to one of his three good-looking friends and simultaneously grab my arm up near my armpit and pull me closer to himself as if keeping me from wandering off. He'd turn to take up his drink from the bar and press the whole length of the side of his body against me as he leaned in to sip the drink. All the time he gave the appearance of someone simply limited for space because of the press of the crowd of us.

My response was to fan the embers of this sexual dance with him. Moments after he'd bump me, I'd bump him back. He'd press my leg and feel pressure back from me. He'd brush his hand against my ass and I'd smile at him. He'd smile back. Without the need for language, we were coming to understand one another. If he wanted to play with my ass, I was willing to let him. Without language, we both were becoming hot for one another. This dance was breathtaking in its erotic simplicity and carnal stimulation. Finally, as I slid my hand down along my hip, he pressed his groin against the back of it. I could feel a stiff erection underneath his trousers. I looked into his eyes. They shown with excitement and craving. Mine must have reflected the same. I nodded, wordlessly.

He grabbed my hand and led me away from the bar towards the door, calling instructions to his friends and to the bartender. From what I could decipher, he told his friends we'd be back soon, and told the bartender to keep my tab running. They simply ignored us or waved idly, giving me the clear impression this was routine behavior from Franco. I had no idea where he was taking me, or what would happen when we got there, but I wasn't dragging my heels.

Outside, Franco said, "Come," in heavily accented English as he led me to a small, white Fiat parked across the cobble-stoned street. It was an old, tinny, tiny relic of a square, boxy little car. He opened the driver's side door and got in, waiting for me to go around and get in. I did and he drove off into the foggy night.

The streets were dark and poorly lit, but fairly devoid of any other traffic. We drove for perhaps five minutes with relatively few turns and at a good clip. Suddenly he turned off the main road onto a side street, made a few more turns on side streets and then pulled into a large, dark, almost empty parking lot surrounded by a few trees and a number of tall apartment buildings.

I made a motion as if to exit the car, expecting that we'd go to his apartment, but he stopped me by grabbing my left arm. Here," he said emphatically in English, and let go of my arm. Then, in the dimness in the car, he reached over, took my right hand, and brought it to his crotch. "Here," he repeated, but softly, in seductive tones that spoke volumes of his intent.

The car was so small that we were sitting shoulder to shoulder. It hardly required movement for me to open his pants quickly and seek out that hardness which had pressed itself against my hand in the bar. Even with extraneous thoughts intruding into my concentration, like, "Where the hell are we?" and "Are we gonna try to make out in this tiny car?" and "Won't we be seen?" I more than did my best to focus on the delights at hand. After all, this was the hottest Italian male it had ever been my good fortune to meet up with, and NOTHING was going to spoil my golden chance to have a good time, regardless of the circumstances. If this is where he'd like to make out, then this is exactly the spot where I wanted to be. I had never had fantasies of making out in a car, like I suppose some guys have had, but I was certainly willing to give it my best effort!

His cock filled my hand. Even seated, with much of it out of reach between his muscular legs, it was without doubt a fine specimen. Uncircumcised, its skin moved easily as I began to toy with it. He moaned with pleasure, leaning back, shifting his legs apart and offering me better access. I opened his trousers wider and reached in with my other hand and played with his large ballsac. He rubbed the back of my neck with his right hand, as I became more familiar with his stiff organ. It pulsated in my fist and seemed to glow in the soft, dim light, the head shining enough so I could see it in the darkness. I wanted to go down on it immediately, but I sensed he wanted to be made love to.

I opened his silk shirt and rubbed his body with loving strokes, massaging his strong, well-developed pecs and pinching the hardening nipples. He groaned with enjoyment. I leaned over and licked a nipple and sucked it into my mouth. It was hard and large and he responded by tightening his grip around my neck and pressing my face against his firm chest. I nipped and teased with my teeth and sucked the tit for all I was worth. He loved it, and encouraged me to give equal treatment to the other nipple, too. I loved the fresh, clean taste of him. Strangely, he didn't taste like an American boy. I don't know what it was, but he had a delicious flavor to his creamy skin, almost like almond.

As he relaxed his grip, I slid my face down his body, heading for what I figured was my reward. His rock-hard cock throbbed in my fist in a way that acknowledged the direction my mouth was taking. As my lips slid onto the firm contours of his hot cockhead, he sighed, "Si, Si!" hissing the syllables out slowly and with much feeling, giving heartfelt permission for me to continue. I sucked in the glans of his fat weapon and swirled my tongue around it passionately. He groaned. I sucked while pushing my head down further into his lap, aware that my shoulder was blocked by the damned steering wheel, but intent on overcoming the obstacles in the tiny car in order to enjoy thoroughly the chance to lap up this sexy Italian's seed.

But Franco had something else on his mind. He began undoing my coat after pushing his hand under my doubled-over chest. I came up off of his wonderful cock and looked at him. He grinned at me and finished opening my coat and then he opened my jeans, too. My erection popped out immediately since I wore no undershorts, and he looked at it appreciatively. "Very good," ("Molto bene"), he whispered huskily, and he stretched to tug my jeans down my legs as I lifted my ass from the seat to help him. The maneuver thrust my cock up at his face, but he just looked up and grinned at me, excitement flashing in his eyes.

He leaned back in his seat again and thrust his hips forward, offering me another shot at his cock. I didn't need a formal invitation. Immediately, I was down on him again and working to get as much of his thick meat into my mouth as possible. This time, he seemed to be working with me, jabbing his hips upwards, drawing back, humping upwards again. I began to enjoy the mutual effort exerted by the two of us. His cock slid further and further into my mouth, penetrated into my throat and felt right at home. I loved feeling it pulsating as he enjoyed the hot, moist, sucking tightness of me. It kept going deeper and deeper as I sank further and further into his crotch. It dawned on me that once again the optical illusion of seeing an erection on a seated man had caused me to underestimate the size of his lance. It was deep in my throat as he sat there, and yet I had only access to little more than about half of it. And it was a thick one, at that, forcing my mouth to widen and widen more. Then it hit me. This is a big cock!

With that thought, and all the other extraneous concerns I was having, I wondered for a moment if I'd be capable of getting him off in the tight confines of the driver's seat. Actually, it was one of the few times in my life that I wondered if I was fully up to the task at hand. After all, sometimes things just don't work out. But in this case, I shouldn't have worried. Franco had other ideas, anyway.

He pulled back on his hips and pulled up on my collar. I understood that he wanted something, so I reluctantly gave up my prize and sat up. He smiled and kept pulling on my collar. I realized he was trying to strip off my coat, so I helped him. Then he helped me out of my T-shirt. I was naked to my knees. He began to play with my tits. Using both hands, he massaged and tweaked, pinched and rubbed, and got me very hot. I loved it and could see that he was turned on by the meaty fullness of my pecs and the hardness of my nipples.

He whispered something to me that I didn't understand. To my "Huh?" he repeated the whispered request more loudly and slowly, this time motioning with a movement of his head towards the backseat. He watched me look into the backseat, look back at him questioningly, look back into the backseat, and look at him and ask, "There?" He nodded excitedly. I thought, What the Hell, and nodded back.

He stretched towards me like he was going to kiss me but then reached around me for a lever in my seat, pulled, and the back of the seat collapsed into the rear. He fell upon me as I fell back and we started to chuckle. He rose above me, smiling an open-mouthed grin, and looked down on me lying there on the seat. I saw him look at my face, my chest, my erection and up to my face again, and a look of great seriousness crossed his face. He stretched to lean towards me, straining to lift himself out of the driver's seat, pressing his nearly naked body up against mine, and he kissed me on the lips, while one hand massaged my breast. The kiss lasted an amazingly long time. It was tender, then demanding; loving, then insistent; passionate, then forceful as he stabbed his tongue repeatedly into my receptive mouth while his cock throbbed in syncopation against my thigh. His meaning became completely clear. He wanted to fuck me. As he lifted his head from me, a questioning look on his face, I gave him my agreement, sighing, "Si! Si!" in that same hissing form and with the same feeling he had used earlier.

He grunted excitedly in response, nudging me to get up and crawl towards the back. As I did so, he pulled off my loafers and completed the removal of my jeans. Now I was completely naked, on my hands and knees, trying to maneuver into the back seat of this not-for-export model Fiat that was two sizes too small. But Franco suddenly grabbed my buttocks with both hands and began fondling it. He erupted with a string of rapid-fire Italian again, and I could only get the sense that he really liked what he saw. And, if I do say so myself, it’s an ass really to get excited about. He pressed a cheek against a cheek of my ass and then kissed it. He was turned on.

Franco then gave me a series of directions, accompanied by tugs and pulls so I could clearly understand what he wanted. I found myself with the top of my head pressed against the back of the backseat, my knees spread as wide as possible in the cramped space on the folded down front seat, and my ass pointed at him awaiting his pleasure. He slithered on top of me as best he could, his warm, smooth skin feeling wonderful as he slid against my naked back. He had stripped off his own shirt and coat. I didn't think he was that far up over me when, suddenly, I felt the head of his cock push against my thigh. It felt great. I really got excited by the anticipation its touch caused. I realized I was about to get plowed by this terrific Italian stud-fucker. I realized, too, being practical, that the cockhead felt rather dry, it having been a while since I had it in my mouth, so I moistened my fingers and reached back to moisten it and to guide it to its goal.

Franco hissed with delight as I grabbed his cock and aimed it at my hole. He felt the added moisture and knew what I had done. He pumped his hips at me and drove the cockhead through my grasp and into my asscheeks right up to the sought-after portal. His pressure was met with corresponding pressures from my ass and the penetration was quickly started. I relaxed and opened up to him.

It was all right at first, but he just kept driving that big thing at me. I shouted with every foreign word and English slang I could think of that meant STOP!, but he just kept driving that big thing into me. I tried to squirm out of that fucker's tight grasp, but he just kept driving that big thing deeper into me. I tried to move away in the restrictive confines of that cramped little foreign car, but had nowhere to go, and my movements just seemed to goad him on and he just kept driving that big thing further and further into me until I was impaled upon it. Until it was in up to his balls. Until it felt like he was poking it into one of my lungs, it was in so far. And then he stopped. Thank God. He stopped. Completely.

I was sweating and pissed off, cramped and annoyed, plugged and powerless. But, wouldn't you know it, as pressures and pain subsided, as effort diminished and sweat cooled, as cramped quarters somehow magically changed into a comfortable little fuck nest, and as my well-plugged butt began to realize that THIS was precisely the degree of fullness it had been longing for, I relaxed and let the overwhelming pleasures of this fuck wash over me. It transformed me into the wanton sex addict deep down I always knew I really was.

I started by tentatively tugging against the stiff intruder. Franco immediately sensed the responsiveness of my ass and whispered, "Ecco," in Italian, meaning, "That's it." I pushed back lightly against his giant meat and he immediately whispered again, "Ecco." I humped forward, tugging with rectal and sphincter muscles on that wonderful sinew of masculine potency, and he hissed with pleasure, "Ecco!" Well, a clamping of muscles here, an "Ecco" there, and before you knew it, the two of us were going at it like we'd fucked in that Fiat every night of our grown up days. I pulled out every trick I ever learned and Franco fucked me like to teach me more. He was a true backseat driver. A real power driver. And we really went at it.

Suddenly, a light from a moving car passed over us. I pushed my head upward, working against Franco who was covering me completely, and I looked out the back window. Another car had pulled into the lot. It didn't park near us, or near any of the other cars. Each had occupants in them, too. And I realized that these weren't apartment buildings, but dark office buildings. This must be an office complex parking lot not used at night by anyone but Italian fuckers. I watched as one car left and another came in. Sure enough, the car parked off by itself.

Franco grunted something and pulled my head down again. He slipped his hand down from my tits and started jacking me off. He had a wonderful, firm, knowing, long stroke, which he performed with precision and unrelenting rhythm, counter-pointing his full strokes fucking into my ass. We kept at it for an incredible length of time; neither relenting, nor giving quarter. I wished it could have lasted forever and sensed Franco felt the same way.

But, his jacking skill was too expert and the efforts we were both engaged in too overpowering to prolong the relentless drive to climax. I felt the unstoppable build-up coming and tried to slow it down, reaching for his hand to reduce the tempo of the beat, but he ignored my pleas. With all of his weight on top of me, he was humping fully into me, making the strokes crush my head into the cushions, drawing back until his cock almost slipped out but was still tightly gripped by my sphincter, and then fucking fully back into me. But, as he felt the iron-rigid stiffening of my cock in its greatest engorgement and recognized I was about to come, he humped tightly, deeply, into me and stayed there, thrusting short fast jabs into me as he felt my orgasm approach.

I felt his big balls tighten up against the base of his cock. I knew he was going to explode in me. It was a wonderful moment of sexual recognition. I pulled in my abdomen, felt a wave of intense sensual pleasure surge through my being, felt my rectal muscles grab and tighten, felt my ass sucking on that huge cock which had become hard as stone in me, and I came! Blast after blast of semen wildly shot out of me into the cushions of the backseat. Franco knew enough to pump my cock only once with each blast of cum.

How he kept such concentration, I'll never know, because just as I started to come, his cock swelled even further, went rigid and began pumping cum deep, deep inside of me. He let out small grunts as he came. The grunts were right at my ear and I loved hearing them. They seemed to last forever, as his heavy body spasmed on top of me jetting its rich load into me. I was in ecstasy, but yet had the presence of mind to comprehend that THIS was one of the best fucks of my life. From every groan, from every affectionate move, from every fiber of his being, I could sense that Franco knew he'd just engaged in one of the best fucks of his life, too.

I don't remember exactly how we got untangled or re-dressed in that wonderful little car, only that we took our time about it in the glowing aftermath of great sex, but I do remember giggles and slaps and laughter and affection. He kissed me on the lips as he started the car and then we headed back to the bar. We both were happy.

It surprised me how normal Franco looked as we walked back into the bar. I wondered if I looked that well composed, imagining I must look like the well-fucked piece of ass I really felt like. He waved at his friends and went over to them at the bar, while I headed for the men's room to release the quarts of cum I felt I was straining to retain in my bowels. I freshened up, glad that the water was hot, and then checked myself in the full-length mirror. Everything looked normal. I knew my slightly confounded expression would dissolve as the after-effects of a great orgasm subsided. I straightened my shoulders and went back to the bar.

A fresh drink was waiting for me at my original spot, I noticed. As I went towards it, Franco's three friends called out to me by name, laughed, slapped me on the back, brought me warmly back into the group, offering spicy little Italian snacks to eat, and talking excitedly to me as though I perfectly understood their machine-gun patter, while they guided me to my place at the bar. I couldn't figure out what was happening. Maybe they'd gotten a little drunk while we were gone. The young man named Antonio handed my drink to me with a motion to drink up. He grinned at me in a sexy way.

I looked at Franco. He smiled but said nothing. The young man named Giorgio handed me another drink and, as I took it from him, he let his hand casually grope my ass. He left it there for a moment longer than seemed prudent. I looked up into his eyes. There was a question in them, I was certain. A plea, "Can I fuck you, too?" they asked. Let me fuck you like Franco just fucked you, they implored. I was, well, sort of shocked. Franco and I hadn't just fucked, had we? Hadn't we made love? Gotten to know each other? Enjoyed more than just a, well, a quickie? Didn't this mean that we should, well, be faithful to one another? At least for tonight? I was in a quandary. He'd introduced his friends to me before we'd driven off to our rendezvous, sure enough, but did that give them the right to come on to me. If anyone fucks me, shouldn't it be Franco, again? I didn't know what to think. And wasn't thinking too clearly, anyhow.

Franco's third friend, Umberto, resolved my predicament. He was standing next to me at the bar, leaning against it in a sexy pose, watching me. He had a cute smile and a tall, graceful body, with a head of black hair he wore with short bangs in front, making him look very "Roman," at least like in the movies. And after watching his two friends flutter around me for a while, he simply took my hand in his, firmly, and tugging me towards the door, said, "Com'on," aloud, and then he whispered directly into my ear, in perfectly understandable, British-accented English, "I'm the next who's gonna fuck ya, lad."

Well, never one to turn down such a polite invitation, I glanced over at Franco as we left. He was grinning from ear to ear and lifted his glass silently to me as he watched me leave. Umberto admitted later, while he had his nice, long dick up inside me in fact, that Franco had told them all I was too good a fuck to pass up. He was facing me at the time, but how I had gotten my legs up in that tiny Fiat, I'll never know. Umberto told me the four of them liked to hang around that bar and get paid by rich foreigners looking for hot action, but that summertime was the only good season. He told me, between huffs as he pumped excitedly, deep into my ass, that I was the best thing to show up in months. I was about to ask him if they expected me to pay them, too, when his eyes sort of rolled up into his head and he humped a good load passionately into me. (It turned out the five of us drank and ate on my tab, which came to a fair total. They said that while that was all they had wanted from me by way of compensation, they let me know they were grateful for it and had really enjoyed themselves, even apart from the great sex.)

On the way back, Umberto told me to go with whomever takes my hand, and to try to enjoy it. Looking back, I have to laugh. I didn't have to try. I did enjoy it! Until well past dawn. Until we were all well satisfied and I'd had about as many orgasms as I ever thought myself capable of having in so short a period of time (even one from a very gymnastically executed "69" with a nude Giorgio, who turned out to be the most affectionate, and most adventurous of the lot). That beloved Fiat, fairly reeking of steamy sex, was the last vehicle in the parking lot. My only disappointment is that I have never had an opportunity to return for another session with those backseat drivers. But you'll never convince me that Milan on that foggy winter's night was any less exciting than Amsterdam on the best of nights. Or anywhere else!


Jack Sofelot


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