Matteo’s massive, olive-skinned hands clamped onto Simon’s thick iliac crests with a bone-crushing intensity, his blunt, calloused thumbs digging deep into the dimples of the lad’s lower back as he hauled the blonde athlete’s heavy glutes back toward his own towering, hairy frame. The sheer, intimidating bulk of the Italian youth pressed against Simon’s sweat-slicked rear, the coarse, dark thicket of Matteo’s chest hair rasping brutally against the fine navy silk of Simon’s unbuttoned shirt as he was forced down onto the edge of the olive-wood table. Simon’s powerful, tanned thighs were splayed wide over the ancient wood, his black leather sandals scraping against the marble as he struggled to find purchase, his head thrown back in a silent, jagged gasp of anticipation. Without the slightest hint of a preliminary caress, Matteo guided the gargantuan, throbbing head of his dark, vein-mapped cock to the very centre of Simon’s over-sensitised heat, which was still glistening with the crimson stains of the Sassicaia and the tacky, drying remnants of the earlier double-assault. With a single, violent surge of his heavy hips, Matteo buried himself to the absolute hilt, the sound of the wet, visceral impact echoing across the silent terrace like a gunshot.
Simon let out a high-pitched, broken wail of absolute agony and devastating pleasure, his fingers clawing at the linen tablecloth and sending silver cutlery clattering to the stone floor as he felt his internal architecture being forcibly redefined by the sheer, uncompromising girth of the younger man’s intrusion. Matteo was even more formidable than his father, his shaft a blunt, battering ram of Mediterranean muscle that seemed to stretch Simon’s internal walls until they were translucent, the massive head of his cock hammering against Simon’s prostate with a rhythmic, bruising force that made the lad’s entire muscular frame convulse. Matteo began a relentless, animalistic pounding, his breath coming in hot, ragged snarls against the nape of Simon’s neck, his teeth sinking into the corded muscle of the athlete’s shoulder as he drove deeper with every agonizingly perfect thrust. The friction was monumental; the tight, salt-stung canal of Simon’s hole clutched desperately at the sliding mass of Matteo’s invading length, the viscous mixture of wine and previous seed acting as a searing, slick lubricant that allowed the Italian to bottom out with a heavy, meaty thud against Simon’s perineum.
"Look at you, Englishman," Matteo hissed, his voice a vibrating, bass-heavy rumble that Simon felt in his very marrow, his large hands moving forward to grip Simon’s heavy, slab-like pectorals through the silk and wrenching them back to arch the lad’s spine. "You were built for this. Built to be a vessel for a man’s fury. You can feel me in your stomach, can’t you? You can feel every centimetre of me claiming what my father bought."
Simon couldn't even formulate a coherent thought, his mind reduced to a white-hot haze of raw, physical sensation as he felt himself being systematically colonised by the younger man’s relentless pace. He began to thrust back instinctively, his heavy rugby-honed buttocks meeting Matteo’s groin with a wet, slapping cadence that spoke of total, profitable ruin, his own cock jerking and leaking thick strings of pre-cum across the dark wood of the table. The pace became frantic, a desperate, sweaty collision of two powerful specimens under the uncaring gaze of the Tuscan moon; Matteo’s thrusts grew shorter, sharper, and more violent, his fingers leaving darkening, purpule bruises on Simon’s hips as he reached the absolute limit of his endurance. With a final, guttural roar of triumph that seemed to shake the very foundations of the villa, Matteo drove himself deep into Simon’s core and held him there, his massive shaft spasming as he erupted, jetting great, hot, rhythmic surges of thick, viscous seed deep into Simon’s already-saturated internals. Simon followed instantly, his own orgasm racking his powerful frame in a series of violent, toe-curling tremors, his seed splattering across the silk of his shirt and the expensive table as he groaned into the night air, completely and utterly broken by the weight of the R. family legacy.
The air on the terrace was heavy with the thick, musk-laden scent of spent passion and the metallic tang of spilled wine, but Marcus allowed no respite for the gasping, over-extended athlete draped across the olive-wood table. Matteo withdrew his massive, dark length with a slow, wet schlucking sound that echoed in the high-vaulted stone arches, leaving Simon’s ravaged entrance pulsing and weeping a thick, translucent mixture of Roman seed and red Sassicaia. Before Simon could even attempt to pull his trembling, rugby-honed thighs together, Marcus’s heavy hand slammed down onto the small of his back, pinning him firmly against the hard timber.
"Don't you dare move, Simon," Marcus commanded, his British accent low and predatory, vibrating through the fine navy silk of Simon's shirt. "You stay exactly as my son left you—open, empty, and waiting. You haven't earned the right to stand yet."
Marcus stepped into the space between Simon’s splayed legs, his own thick, pale shaft already rigid and weeping with a clear, viscous fluid that glistened like diamonds in the candlelight. He didn't use any additional lubricant; he simply gripped the base of his pulsing cock and guided the blunt, broad head to the very centre of Simon’s raw, crimson-stained heat. With a single, uncompromising lunge that sent a shudder through the entire table and made the remaining crystal glasses chime together, Marcus buried himself to the hilt. Simon let out a high-pitched, broken wail of absolute sensory overload, his fingers clawing at the wood as he felt the massive, sliding invasion of the older man’s length stretching his internal muscles to a terrifying new extreme, the friction of the salt-stung skin against his internal walls making his vision swim with white-hot sparks of agony and ecstasy.
The rhythm Marcus established was slow, deliberate, and utterly relentless, each deep, bottoming thrust designed to batter Simon’s prostate with surgical precision. The sound of their joined flesh meeting in a wet, heavy slap filled the night air, a primal symphony of squelching friction and guttural grunts of exertion. Marcus’s hands, broad and authoritative, moved forward to grip Simon’s thick, sweat-slicked pectorals through the silk, yanking the lad’s torso back to arch his spine and force his flushed, over-stretched hole even wider to accommodate the full, punishing weight of the billionaire’s assault. Every time Marcus drove forward, his heavy, low-slung balls slapped against Simon’s perineum with a stinging, carnal force that made the lad’s cock jerk and weep fresh strings of pre-cum across the dark wood of the table.
"Tell me, Simon," Marcus hissed into the lad's ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive lobe as his thrusts became faster and more violent. "Does it feel different when it’s the man who owns you? Can you feel the difference between my son’s heat and my cold, hard reality? I want you to feel every millimetre of my shaft claiming what I paid for. I want you to remember this feeling every time you look at the balance of your bank account."
Simon couldn't speak, his mind reduced to a frantic, animalistic haze of raw physical sensation as he felt the impending explosion building deep within his core for the third time that night. Marcus’s pace became frantic, his hips slamming into Simon’s quivering, heavy glutes with a rhythmic, bone-deep thudding that spoke of total, profitable ruin. As the older man reached his limit, his entire body stiffening and his muscles cording like steel cables, he delivered three final, devastating shoves that buried him deeper than he had ever been before. Simon let out a guttural, soul-shaking roar of triumph as his own orgasm erupted, jetting thick, white ropes of spent seed across the table and his own silk sleeves, just as Marcus’s hot, pulsing load flooded his internals in a series of searing, rhythmic surges that seemed to go on forever. They hung there for several long minutes, joined and sweating in the moonlit stillness, the only sound the ragged, synchronised gasps of the three men who had turned an ancient Tuscan terrace into a theatre of absolute, unadulterated debauchery.
