Simon stepped back into the main cabin, the scent of Hermès sandalwood clinging to his damp skin and the fresh, white elastic of the new jockstrap snapping firmly against his hips with every stride. Marcus was seated again, his legs crossed elegantly, swirling a fresh glass of amber scotch as he watched Simon approach. The table had been miraculously cleared of the evidence of their debauchery by Elias, leaving only a faint, lingering musk in the pressurized air.
"You look revitalised, Simon," Marcus murmured, his eyes tracking the way the crisp white shirt strained against Simon's heavy pectorals. "Though I can see from the way you're walking that Elias has left a lasting impression. He’s a thorough man, isn't he? I imagine you’ve never felt quite so... occupied."
Simon lowered himself into the leather chair opposite Marcus, a sharp hiss of breath escaping his teeth as his tender, over-stretched entrance met the supple hide. "He’s a monster, Marcus. I felt like he was trying to reach my throat from the inside. I’m still throbbing... I can feel my pulse right where he was hammering into me."
Marcus let out a low, dark chuckle, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the maple wood. "That sensation is the feeling of being truly owned. You aren't just a straight lad playing a part anymore; you’re a vessel. Tell me, honestly—as the water washed his and my seed out of you in that shower—did you feel a sense of loss? Or was it a relief to know there’s plenty of room for me to fill you up again once we reach the villa?"
Simon looked down at his glass, his knuckles white as he gripped the crystal. "It felt... empty. Strange as it sounds. After having both of you stretching me to the limit, the silence in that shower felt wrong. I think I’m getting used to the weight of a man inside me. I’m starting to crave that blunt, heavy pressure."
"A dangerous admission for a 'straight' jock," Marcus teased, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating register. "But a very profitable one. I want you to remember that feeling of emptiness as we descend into Pisa. I want you to feel every centimetre of that jockstrap holding your cheeks apart, reminding you that you are currently a hollow space waiting for my command. When we get to the villa, I’m going to have you stripped and waiting on the terrace. I want to see the moonlight reflecting off the sweat on your back while I show you exactly how much more I can make you take."
"I'll be ready," Simon whispered, his cock thickening against the cotton pouch of his underwear at the mere thought of the Tuscan night. "I don't care how much it hurts or how much you stretch me. For fifty grand, and for the way you make me feel... I’ll let you do whatever you want."
Marcus reached across the table, his fingers hooking into the collar of Simon’s shirt and pulling him close until their foreheads touched. "Good boy. Because Elias might have been the appetiser, but I am the main course. And in Tuscany, Simon, I intend to feast."
The descent into Pisa was a blur of golden twilight and the low, pressurized hum of the cabin, but as the private jet’s wheels kissed the tarmac, Simon felt a fresh jolt of adrenaline override his physical exhaustion. They were whisked through a private terminal and into a waiting Alfa Romeo, which tore through the winding, cypress-lined roads of the Tuscan countryside with aggressive Italian flair. When the car finally pulled through the towering iron gates of the villa—a sprawling, terracotta-roofed masterpiece of Renaissance architecture perched atop a moonlit hill—Simon felt the sheer scale of Marcus’s world pressing down on him. The air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and ancient stone, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of the jet.
Marcus led him through the arched stone portico and into a grand marble foyer, where the flickering light of a massive wrought-iron chandelier cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. Standing by a central fountain was a younger man who seemed to radiate a raw, magnetic power that made Simon’s breath hitch in his throat.
"Simon, allow me to introduce you to my son, Matteo," Marcus said, his voice smooth and laced with a paternal pride that felt distinctly predatory.
Matteo was an absolute titan, standing several inches taller than Simon’s own broad rugby frame. He looked like a Greek statue brought to life, his skin a deep, sun-drenched olive that looked polished under the golden light. He was wearing an expensive linen shirt left entirely unbuttoned, revealing an impossibly thick, dark carpet of hair that matted his barrel-like chest and disappeared into the waistband of his low-slung trousers. His shoulders were immense, and his arms were corded with heavy, functional muscle that suggested he spent as much time in the Mediterranean sun as he did in a gym.
"Ciao," Matteo rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. He stepped forward, his presence engulfing Simon’s space, and reached out a large, calloused hand to grip Simon’s shoulder. His touch was heavy and possessive, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes raking over Simon’s bespoke suit with a slow, scrutinising intensity that made the young jock feel entirely transparent.
"My father told me he was bringing back something special from London," Matteo continued, his English accented with a melodic, rolling lilt. He stepped closer, the scent of expensive tobacco and sweat-slicked skin radiating from his hairy chest. He looked down at the way Simon’s slim-fit trousers were stretched across his powerful thighs, his gaze lingering on the tell-tale ridge of the jockstrap beneath the wool. "But the photos did not do justice to the sheer bulk of you. You have the build of a gladiator, Simon. I wonder... does that thick English muscle of yours know how to yield to a Roman hand?"
Simon felt a flush of heat creep up his neck, his cock thrumming against the elastic of his jockstrap in an immediate, traitorous response to the younger man’s dominance. "I’m... I'm learning," Simon managed to rasp, his voice sounding thin against Matteo’s resonant bass.
Marcus watched the exchange with a thin, satisfied smile, his hand coming to rest on the small of Simon’s back, pushing him slightly closer to his son. "Matteo is far less patient than I am, Simon. And as you can see, he is built for a very specific kind of endurance. I’ve told him all about your performance on the flight. He’s quite eager to see if you can handle both of us at once on the terrace tonight."
Matteo’s grip on Simon’s shoulder tightened, his thumb digging into the corded muscle of his neck. "I do not think he will have a choice, Papa," Matteo whispered, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, violent lust. "By the time the moon sets, I want to see this suit in shreds and this big, beautiful jock weeping for mercy. I have a very long, very thick welcome prepared for our guest."
