Inspirations

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 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 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 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.

As I lay there, I looked out of the window to see that a man, naked, was standing at a window in the next building over. He had been watching the two fishermen fuck me. He had his cock in on hand, a cigarette in the other, and was stroking himself. Yet more inspiration of a story I thought. He nodded his head in a “You can come over here” gesture, and I nodded back. Another encounter and story for later.

The two fishermen returned to the bed, climbed up on it together, gathered up my body, and, sandwiching me between them. Realizing what they were going to do, I struggled a bit, but they just laughed and did it anyway. I settled down to panting hard and moaning low and letting them do what they wanted.

Each thrust up inside me, sharing my channel, and fucking me in a double. Crying out “Yes, yes, you big brutes. Fuck me hard!” I writhed between them, taking both cocks together, hard.

The man in the window in the other building, shot his load, but remained to watch me be double fucked. The fishermen showered together as I lay, moaning and panting, watching the man in the window of the other building watching me, and then then dressed, chatting amicably with each other—saying nothing to me—and left my flat without so much as a thank you. One of them did, though, retrieve my clothes off the staircase, toss them into the flat and close the door.

In the story I wrote from the inspiration of this encounter, I would write that I hobbled out to the balcony, maintaining eye contact with the man in the window of the other building, and gestured for him to come across. In the story, he would come across and fuck me on the bed. That’s not what happened in real life. I can’t even say there really was a man in the window. I may have fantasized that.

The two fishermen were real, though. Being doubled was gloriously real.

When I had recuperated, later in the afternoon, I dressed again and went down to the harbor and sat on the wall. This time I attracted the attention of a middle-aged, rather ugly, but fit man coming off the yacht basin piers. He said his name was Giorgio. He expensively dressed in nautical whites. He stopped and looked at me, making eye contact, nonverbally checking on whether I knew what it meant to be sitting on that wall. When he was assured, he took a wallet out and started fanning out high-denomination euro notes.

His yacht was not large, but it was sleek and beautiful and the lounge bed in the fantail accommodated us well when he had sailed us out to off the coast where, lying first on my back and then positioned on all fours, I could enjoy the view of the mountainside village from off shore, while the old man, large of cock, masterful in the fuck, covered and pounded me through the afternoon.

When I finally wrote up the story inspired by the men from the sea, the fishermen would still do me in a double, but, in addition to the version of them following me up to my flat, they would take me out to sea on their fishing boat and have their way with me at length and forcefully. I would be their willing slave and they my commanding masters.

* * * *

His name was Paulo. He was the guitarist from the previous night at the tavern terrace where Salvatore had picked me up. I went there for dinner again that evening to eat, drink, and watch the sun sitting in a riot of color over the Ligurian Sea. The evening before he had made eyes for me and he did so tonight, as well, a waiter telling me that one of the ballads the man played was dedicated to me. He was tall and wiry, dark and sexy. He was more beautiful than handsome, but he was intriguing and interesting to watch and think about. I watched his long, sensual fingers expertly working his guitar and I imagined what those fingers could do on my body. After playing the ballad, the sensuous fingers came off the keyboard and his index finger was pointing at me. We both knew that he was claiming me; we both knew I would succumb to him.

Brandon had advised me to write with variety. That meant that sometimes I needed to write from the perspective of the top—not only the bottom. Paulo struck me as perhaps a bottom rather than a top, in which case all we could do was flirt.

I could use this situation for inspiration, though, and I did. As he played and I drank and ate and took in the rich display of the falling of day, I conjured up a story of when Paulo went on break, I followed him back into the dark passage at the rear of the restaurant, and stopped him there. I turned him, back him to the wall, and possessed his lips with mine, going into a deep kiss that he responded to. I did not speak Italian and he did not speak English. We both, however, spoke the language of fuck. We both fumbled around with the shirts of the other, shedding them, and then with the belts and flies. We released each other, and, as we kissed, he combined our hands to encircle our engorging cocks together and frotted each of us together to full erection.

Holding him against the wall, I grasped his buttocks cheeks and raised his body to me. He hooked his knees on my hips, cried out as I penetrated him, swift and deep, and I fucked him there against the wall.

The reality was that Paulo wasn’t a bottom. He was a top. At the end of his session at the tavern, he climbed to hill to my flat with me, stretched out beside me on the bed, my buttocks nestled into his groin, and he played my body with his sensuous fingers as well as he strummed his guitar. He fucked me in a side split—then later with me on my belly and him riding my ass like a jockey and even later in a missionary. He didn’t leave until day was dawning.

But the inspiration was of the narrator fucking the musician in the dark corridor at the rear of the tavern, and that was how I would write it up.

* * * *

I was so steeped in story inspiration and notes that I remained in my flat, furiously drafting away, ever expending time and effort on polishing the stories for the next two days, only dashing out for food. Well, to be honest, I did return to the tavern overlooking the sea on the second night, bring Paulo, the guitarist, home with me, and lay with and under him through the night. He sensed I was preoccupied with writing, even though in sexual need, and the fucking was slow and sensual, relieved by long periods of cuddling and dozing.

Word was getting out in the village of what I wanted from a man—what I would do for a man. When I opened the door to let Paulo out the next morning, there stood Alonzo, of the pale blue eyes, waiting his turn—and after him, Lorenzo, of the lizard tattoo and bent cock. Carlos, fifty-five if a day, was the most vigorous and taxing of them all, breeding me again and again as if there was no tomorrow for either of us. All of them beautiful, accomplished men, no matter what their age. I no longer had to dress as a whore and sit on a wall at the harbor to announcement my availability. I wasted a whole day on my back on my bed, legs spread and open, taking men’s cocks, but the inspiration for writing of men on top of me, fucking me, flowed unabated.

I was building quite a portfolio of stories to be polished, both “Travels on the Italian Coast” mainstream ones to fulfill the requirements of my sabbatical and to be critiqued in Brandon James’s creative writing class as well as the steamy ones for Brandon’s personal collection. Brandon had said, though, that there were places, on the Internet and at Internet distributors where the gay male stories could be published, so they would be for more than my arousal and Brandon’s enjoyment.

On the fourth morning, having been in this village for six days now and soon to be picked up by someone, an Algerian, I was told, to drive on for a stay and exploration of Rome, I had drafted all of the stories I’d been inspired to write here and ventured out again to sit the wall down in the harbor and, I hoped, pick up a man and new inspiration for stories.

The man who picked me up was a new man—it was Giorgio, the gnarled old rich man with the impossibly big cock who had taken me out on his small yacht and fucked the hell out of me. He stood there in front of me, having come down through one of the village narrow streets. When I saw him, I saw that he was talking to Carlos, the master cocksman, and I realized that they networked their assignations in this town. Giorgio was carrying a hamper and obviously, in his pristine yachting whites, was planning on going out in his boat again. I was dressed as before, with just a change of color from red to blue—a blue stringer T-shirt, showing off my cut torso; a blue thong, under white mesh shorts; and open-toed sandals.

“You’re still here,” Giorgio said, standing in front of me and grinning. “I was about to go to a special island today. Now I know why I packed food and drink for two. Will you go with me and let me spend the day enjoying you on a deserted island?”

“A special desert island?” I asked, intrigued. Remembering the power of his cock and the openness of his pocketbook despite his age and lack of beauty, I was otherwise willing. He named a price, which was more than generous for a day’s frolic.

“It’s not much more than a grove of trees surrounded by a circle of sand. No one lives there. I am one of few who goes there. It offers privacy and an opportunity to be free in thought and action.”

“Free in thought?” I asked. It sounded ideal for coming up for inspiration for stories.

“Yes—in the thought of how many ways I can use your young body. And action—in how well I can fulfill my thoughts. I enjoyed your body on the boat the other day. It was a lovely sonata. You are a beautiful, yielding young man. And you are a slut for it, which an old man like me appreciates. The isolated island, however, with just the two of us will allow opportunity for a symphony of sexual exploration and completion. If you go with me, I will use you totally. We will be alone on the island. I have my pills with me and I will be hard all day. I will take you everywhere sexually. You strike me as a young man who is exploring it all on your travels. Go with me to the island and experience it all.”

“You are quite direct and sure of yourself,” I said.

“And you are without shame. Half of the village has had you. You have opened your legs to any man who wanted to fuck you. I have had you and will have you again. Come, get into my boat. I will fuck you as we go out to the island.”

He had no idea how completely this played to my quest for story inspiration.

“Yes, of course,” I said, rising from the wall, looking beyond the gaunt ugliness of his body and remembering the surprising strength of him and his extraordinary cock as well as the glint in his eyes that I’d observed while he was fucking me on the boat that hinted that there was so much more he wanted to do with my body—and would be capable of doing if I let him—and even if I didn’t let him if he could get me into position, like on a small deserted island, to take what he wanted. I shuddered from anticipation.

He smiled and extended the hand not holding the hamper. “Come, let us go to the boat and out to the special island. Let me show you what an older man with vast experience can do with a young man’s body. You will come for me again and again. We will have no need to talk. I will ravish you. I am paying you a fortune and you will earn every bit of it.”

* * * *

I was pressed in the sand on my back, naked—naked the whole day as Giorgio had relentlessly tracked me down as we moved around the perimeter beach of the small island, caught me, and fucked me. As he promised, he was hard all day, putting it in me whenever I turned around. I received him willingly each time, relaxing, opening, stretching to his demand, moving with his thrusts, taking him deep, clutching at him, and crying out my need and satisfaction. He had called me a slut, and he had called me correctly. He didn’t come each time, but often enough for me to marvel that a man of his age could recharge that often.

Giorgio had brought a collection of restraints and toys onto the island and methodically had used them all in a progressively more demanding taking. The old man was hung and he had taken his pills on the yacht before we reached the island. He was able to maintain a magnificent erection. He also had proven that he could breed me—and did—every half hour or so. He was right—we didn’t talk; we fucked.

He was stronger than I was. He was quicker than I was. He caught and manipulated me at will. I moaned and groaned and sighed and sobbed for him as he used my body totally.

I was trussed up, my legs drawn up into my chest by strong roping that held my arms captive, wrists tied to ankles, and the rope going around my neck to hold me drawn into myself and my thighs spread, giving Giorgio’s hand full access to my ass. His fist was inside me up to the wrist, and he was slow fucking me with the hand. He was leaned over me, sucking on my cock, teasing yet another ejaculation out of me. I was panting heavily and whimpering my surrender. I’d already been through the resistance, crying out, and sobbing phases. It was glorious suffering. I wanted it to stop. I didn’t want it to stop.

He took his mouth off my cock, to counsel yet again, “Relax. Take it. You’re doing beautifully. Relaxing and giving yourself totally to me will allow me to go deeper.”

Go deeper? I was close to hyperventilating. Did I want him to go deeper? Did it matter what I wanted? Regardless, I did relax more. I came for him, and, with a grunt of pleasure, he pulled his fist out, moved between my trussed up thighs, mounted me with that monster cock of his, penetrated, and once again began the dance of the anal fuck.

Relaxing into this position and having come again myself, my mind started to wander—inspiration flowing in to create a story from this—to project beyond this to an even more fantastic story.

Going back in time and to the Caribbean. The time of pirates and small, remote islands like this. A battle between the merchant ship that I was a young sailor on and pirates. Both of us losing the battle, both of our ships going down. Clothes in tatters, I managed—just me; none of my mates—to swim to a small, deserted island.

The pirates were luckier. Some were already on the island to pull me, totally naked as I came out of the surf, onto the island, dragging me up on the sand. Other pirates came out of the sea behind me.

They trussed me up on the sand there, just as Giorgio has done, and one after the other—and occasionally two together—fucking me and using my body as they liked. Later, when they had hung me between two trees at the center of the island, with the edge of the island in sight from all angles, they whipped and fucked me in turn. My arms and legs were stretched out between the trees in spread-eagled position.

As they had their gang banging way with me, sending me to the heights of both suffering and sexual passion, I could see the sails of another vessel approaching.

Saviors or more devils? I would leave that for later, when I was drafting the story which it would be. Or perhaps I’d leave it to reader choice.

When I came out of my reverie, it was to see that Giorgio was motioning to the sailors who had brought us out to the island—his three-man yacht crew. They had remained on the yacht while we had cavorted on the island. But now Giorgio was giving them their turn. He gestured for them to approach and then he watched, as a voyeur, while the three of them, like the Caribbean pirates of my reverie, shared me, separately and together, on the beach, two in one hole and the third in the other.

* * * *

I lay there on my bed the early morning of that last night in the village, listening to Paulo taking a shower—his last shower here. I already was mostly packed, with my suitcase and carryon sitting by the door and what I would be wearing for the drive to Rome draped over a chair. An Algerian named Munir was supposed to come from me soon, sent by the gay-friendly travel agency to drive me on to Rome to a small vacation flat and to guide me in Rome on my quest for gathering and writing up story inspirations.

Paulo and I had fucked and slept and cuddled on my bed for our last night together. I left a light dimly burning so that the man at the window in the building across the street from my building could watch us languidly fuck. I knew he’d be at the window, and he was. It gave me pleasure to know he was watching us do it—especially as lovingly that we were doing it. I helped give me inspiration, the knowledge that he probably was the only man in this village who wanted to fuck me who had only done so in one of my stories.

This thought moved me as did the bittersweet sensation of having entered a casual short affair with a man I melded to so well as I did with the tavern guitarist Paulo, with both of us knowing the coupling was casual and short lived—and in spite of that having become a deeper, more meaningful relationship, at least for me. I would work to get that into a story or two.

The dawn was creeping in when Paulo had showered dressed and, at the door, had stopped and turned and given me a wistful look before leaving my life forever. Only then did I rise myself, shower, dress, and take a cup of coffee out to the balcony to watch the new day steal into the picturesque harbor town again.

The man across the street, wearing only sleeping shorts, returned to his window and gazed over to me. He ran his hands over his muscular, tight torso and down into his shorts, wear I could see he was working on his cock. I put my coffee cup to the side, unbuckled and flared my trousers, and let those and my briefs drop to the floor of the balcony.

Yet another opportunity to gather inspiration for a voyeur story.

The man was maybe in his late thirties. He was darkly handsome and had a great body. His sleeping shorts slipped to the floor and he leaned into his window, pressing his forehead and the palm of one hand to the glass. His eyes were focused on the half-hard cock projecting from my now-exposed groin. He was in full erection. We both held and stroked off our cocks, our gazes locked on each other across the span of the narrow stone-lined street below us. Light filtered in from reflection of the rising son on the Mediterranean Sea below.

We came almost simultaneously, he against the glass of his window and me onto the street below the balcony.

As I came, I heard the honk of a car horn from below. I looked down over the railing of the balcony to see that a small Mercedes SUV had negotiated its way up the steep, narrow street below and stopped in front of my flat. A beefy, muscular, dark-skinned man had gotten out of the car and was looking up at the balcony. I had no idea how long he had been there—it quite evidently was Munir, the gay-friendly travel agency guide who had been sent to take me to Rome to guide me there and provide who knows what other services—but I’m sure he had been there long enough to have satisfied himself on my sexual interests and willingness.

Munir was grinning up at me. I could already tell that this trip to Rome would be very satisfying and would be the inspiration for many stories for the portfolios I was building.

With a contented sigh, I pulled my briefs and trousers up, zipped up, and went back into the flat to pick up my luggage and to descend to new, Algerian-flavored, summer of Italian-inspiration adventures with Munir.

Before I could leave the flat, I answered the knock of the door, opening it to the handsome, sensual Arab, Munir, who embraced me, took me to the floor under him in the flat’s living room in front of the open door, expertly readjusted our clothing to his need, strongly entered me with a thick erection, and fucked me to the realization that my visit to Rome would be quite satisfying indeed.