The Glass House

[“Glass House Initiation” is the first of six stories in The Glass House anthology providing tales of the various men who come to the rental Glass House on the banks of and seemingly floating over Lake Como, Italy, for male-to-male extreme sexual sport and release. The final story will post by the end of the first week in November.]

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Whereas most people take their vacations for rest or experience, I take mine to hunt. I hunt young men who are secretly seeking but are indecisive or fearful and I take them from frustration and indecision into the open. I have an uncanny awareness that what I give them—how I use them—is what they need. I have yet to have a failure. It was thus, with this in mind, that I booked a vacation in The Glass House on Italy’s Lake Como shore.

The Glass House on the southern banks of Lake Como, near the village of Colico, was, many were bold to say, an in-your-face standout—and eyesore even, to traditionalists—among all of the architecturally exquisite examples of earlier eras shoreside mansions dotting this northern section of the finger lake. I picked it out to rent for my holidays precisely for this “in-your-face” reason. That and because of the secret it held inside.

The house I rented, essentially a two-story cube made completely of glass—walls, floors, and ceilings—over a ground-story rock foundation, was eye arresting, not only from the lake but from the SS36 lake rim road as well. It wasn’t large. The first story, nearly hanging over the rocks at the lake’s edge—giving the impression when you were in the house that you actually were floating over the lake—was one large living-space square, the living room and dining room running into a kitchen, separated from it only by a kitchen island. Behind the house, on the western side, on the shoreline, was a rock-floored terrace with a small swimming pool in the center. Above the living level, reached by an open, glass-treaded staircase were two bedrooms, each with a full bath. Only the baths, tucked in on the land side of the house were walled by anything but clear glass, and even their walls were constructed of translucent glass blocks that distorted but didn’t obliterate what lay within. All of the other walls—to the hall, the other bedroom, and the outside—were clear glass. The floor between the first and second floors was made of clear acrylic. There were sun-shade adjustments inside the double-paned glass, but, other than that, there was no curtaining. There was to be no opportunity to hide anything from the world outside. The furnishings of the house were minimal, low-slung, sleek, and white.

Ostensibly, the house was entirely open and transparent to the outside world.

Lit up by night, the house was a completely open lantern, as seen from either the lake or the land. Even during the day, little therein was hidden from view. The building stood out for attention, either in the day or night, and declared it was totally open to view. It was not, I thought, anything that supported secrecy. Secrecy was the enemy to these short vacations I took from my New York studio. All was meant to come out into the open. All was to be readily seen and experienced and enjoyed in honest acknowledgement of who and what we were.

This flaunting of the openness, the transparency, though, was all a tease. The house hid a very dark secret, as did I from my usual life.

I was delighted that I found a house that not only screamed in the face of repressed tradition but that expressed all that I was about here in contrast to how I presented in New York.

On my second day at Lake Como, having survived jetlag, I left The Glass House and walked along the lakeside until I found an open-air café facing the lake and separated from the water only by a pedestrian pathway. Here I sat, placing my camera on the table—I went nowhere without my camera, my lens upon the world and my means for opening up the world—and drank coffee and assessed the young men walking by on their various errands. I assessed each one for beauty, innocence of bearing, and age—and accessibility. How old were they? Eighteen or nineteen was best. Did they have the eyes of a repressed seeker? There were those who said you had to find a rare, acceptable young man, but I had found that, if you identified him at the right moment of his narcissism and exploration of his sexuality, you could turn almost any beautiful young man to your wishes.

Gino, who was revealed to be the desirable age—nineteen—almost fell into my lap—literally. He was gliding by on a bike and fell off it right beside me, going down on his knees directly in front of where I sat, my chair turned toward the lake. In this position, if I had been unzipped and exposed, he need only to have been dipping his head a bit, and he would be giving me a blow job. I cupped his face as he went down—as far as he could see to protect his head, but, in my amusement, also to put him in the position of throating my erection if I had been ready for it. He put a hand on my knee to avoid going flat on his face but jerked it away as if I were a hot stove when he realized he was touching a man.

I took his unceremonious arrival and bowing to me as a sign that Gino was my late-afternoon entertainment. My arousal was only piqued by the thought, looking at the beautiful, small-stature youth, that he was virginal and would have no idea how to give me an adequate blow job. It wasn’t Gino’s mouth I wanted, though. I wanted his body—fully in my control and serving my desires.

Eighteen- and nineteen-year old youths of proper inclination were malleable enough to give you anything you wanted if you knew how to train them. I had an uncanny ability to assess when a young man was approachable—and Gino was. Approachable not just for sex but for so much more.

I had seen him gliding toward me on his bike from down the pathway along the lakeshore and must accept much of the responsibility for his fall. He was a beautiful young man, as I was finding all young Italian men of the Lake Como region seemed to be. Wearing athletic shorts slit up to the waistband on each side, showing he was wearing a silk jock underneath, and a loose athletic T-shirt, cut deep at the arms and neck and loose enough to billow in the breeze, providing glimpses of his hard, tanned chest and nibs. All of the clothing was form fitting. He was on display and proudly aware that he was. It was easy to see he was perfectly formed, with an olive complexion, a ready smile, and a shy, innocent look about him. He wasn’t a tall boy. He had black, curly hair; dark, downcast, eyes; and generous lips—a willowy beauty.

As he approached me on his bike, I saw that he was looking closely at me too, assessing me. I had every reason to believe he would let me use him, given the chance.

I was a professional fashion photographer. I took up my camera and clicked off shots of him as he biked toward me. He noticed what I was doing. That put him off his stride, and I’m sure that’s why he tumbled on the path right next to where I was sitting.

I realized there was a reason I thought of the young man taking me in his mouth when he was kneeling before me from the fall. It was the look he gave me, gazing up into my face. It was a seeker’s look. There was pain there, certainly, from the scrape his knee had received in the fall, but there was something else too—a memory of how I felt when I was his age, virginal but wanting something from a man. The youth wanted a man’s cock. I instinctively knew this. I had always had an inherent skill in discerning this. I also had a rich history in successfully taking advantage of the knowledge.

He almost surely had contemplated the prospect of going under a man. I could have him. I decided I would have him. I reached out, seemingly to keep him from falling further to the ground, my hand cupping and caressing, ever so briefly, his cheek. The look he gave me was unprotected, revealing. He didn’t shrink from my caressing hand. He waited for me to take my hand away.

I could have this virgin. I would have this virgin. Instinctively I knew he was still a virgin to a man’s cock just as I knew he was ripe to be cured of that impediment. There hesitancy and a sense of guilt—the guilt of now knowing what he wanted but not yet surrendering to it— in his look. He would be grateful to me for freeing him of his limiting burden.

He was coming to the right man to experience it all—to be totally initiated and used.

I cajoled him to rise and sit in the other chair at the café table while, taking a white handkerchief out of my pocket, I saw to the slight bleeding from a scrape on his knee. He objected to the virginial, white, pristineness of my expensive handkerchief being sacrificed to his scraped knee, but I persisted, putting him that much more in debt to me. As I dabbed at the knee with one hand, I glided my other hand over the curve of his calf. I felt him tremble at the touch. And a felt the almost reluctance he showed when I took the hand away and sat back into my chair.

He accepted a drink and a short rest from me, and we conversed. His English was excellent.

“You sound like an American,” he said. “Are you a visitor at the lake?”

“Yes, I’m from New York,” I answered. “My name is Clay. And I’m here on a short visit.”

“You were taking my photo. That’s quite a fancy camera.” There was no challenge of intrusion in his voice.

“Yes, sorry. I’m a fashion photographer in New York City. You are a handsome young man. You looked so sexy on your bicycle, and, sorry, I could not resist doing what I do. I made you fall, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry. There must be something I can do to make that up with you.”

“A fashion photographer? As in photos of beautiful women to go in commercial ads.”

“And of young men too. Beautiful young men like you.”

“Like me? I am of a look good enough for fashion modeling?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, knowing that was what he wanted to hear. And he was close enough—close enough for my purposes. “Celebrities have been discovered by my camera in encounters just like we have just had—me seeing something in a young man on the street and capturing him with my lens, revealing the true essence of him to the world—freeing who he really is and giving him the means to be who he wants to be.”

I could tell that that spoke to him—and to his legitimately held narcissism—and, having dropped that nugget of thought, I continued. “I specialize in photos of young men and not just for commercial ads. I do art photography too. And I have a private subscription service for more intimate photos. Do you live around here? Are you on your way to work?”

“No, I am on a research vacation,” he said. He had raised his eyebrows at the mention of the “more intimate” photos, but he hadn’t asked me what I meant by that or risen from the table and peddled off. He knew what I meant by “more intimate” photos, and I knew then that, if I was patient, I would have him.

“My name is Gino,” he continued. “I am a student in architecture at the University of Milan, in my second year.”

“So, you are what . . . twenty?”

“No, I am nineteen—just. I am here studying the architecture of the lakeside mansions.”

“And being photographed by a fashion photographer in an accidental encounter on the shores of the lake,” I said, smiling, engagingly, I hoped; pointing my camera at him and taking a few close-up shots, which he didn’t shy away from. He smiled engagingly for the click of the camera. “And possibly being discovered and revealed to himself and to the world,” I ventured.

Gino blushed and I fired off a few more shots. “Perfetto,” I said. “So, you are interested in architecture,” I continued. “I’m staying at a glass house directly on the shore of the lake not far from here. Perhaps you have seen it. It stands out among the others, I believe.”

“Ah, The Glass House,” Gino said. “It’s a landmark here. We all know it. I would love to see inside it. I’d do anything to be able to see inside it.”

Anything? Was it going to be that easy. I touched his knee, close to, but not directly on the wound, and he didn’t flinch. Still, it was close enough to the wound to hurt, I was sure. Yes, it was going to be that easy. And there was going to pain. Yes, there was going to be pain.

“You would?” I asked, ecstatic that, on his own, he went directly to where I was headed. I took a small wad of euros out of my pocket and placed it on the café table. “Anything?”

He gave the euros a long look.

“Those are not for the waiter. I will pay him separately,” I said.

Gino hesitated. “Intimate photos?”

“Oh, more than that. More than that, Gino.”

More hesitation, but then he picked the euros up and buried them in his pocket.

I touched his knee again—this time on the wound, and he flinched and gave a little gasp.

“That hurt,” he said.

“You have never done this before, have you Gino?” And when he didn’t answer, I said, “There’s always pain the first time.” I didn’t mention that the extent of the pain depended on what acts were included. “What I’m buying will include pain,” I said. “If you don’t want that, return the money. Otherwise follow me.” I stood up.

He hesitated, but he stood, visibly trembling—and he didn’t return the money.

* * * *

“As long as you are here, perhaps you will pose for me. Stand over there, against the glass wall, back to it, arms stretched out, with your palms against the glass, please. You could give me your address, and if I sell any of the photos, there would be money in it for you.”

The tour of the house—at least the part of the house I was prepared to show him at the moment—was complete and we were back in the living room, all glass, floating over Lake Como. Gino had been mesmerized by the architecture of the Glass House and mellowed by the wine I had given him to drink as we moved around. I had touched him here and there to guide him as we moved in the house, and he had not shrunk from me. His eyes told me he wanted me to be inside him. They also told me of the barriers he was facing to be with a man, though.

“Now turn toward the wall, the same pose, but looking out over the lake. Good, beautiful. Perhaps a bit more intimate, though.” I came to him, close behind him, took hold of the hem of his athletic T-shirt, and pulled it over his head. He gave a little gasp, but he didn’t object. I remained close to him for a moment, my mouth close to his ear, letting him feel the nearness of my breath. I ran my hands down his chest and felt him tremble. My fingertips of both hands found and closed on his nubs, gently pulling and squeezing them. He was trembling, and gasped as I pinched them. I then moved immediately away and across the room, picking up my camera again and firing off shots.

“The camera likes them puffy,” I said, in explanation.

Slowly, slowly, I thought. He was showing no sign of resistance, but he was skittish. Slowly.

“Turn now. And slip your shorts off please. Yes, please do it. You are a beautiful young man. Don’t be shy. Be proud of yourself. Yes, thank you. Now, a few poses like that in just the jock. Very nice. Put your fingers in at the side of the jock and push down. Show me some pubic hair. Yes, like that.”

I took more photos. They all would be pure gold. I walked over to directly in front of him, well into his personal space. I touched the waistband of his jockstrap with my fingers. “Now a few special shots,” I whispered.

He gave a low whimper and a scared, wounded fawn look with his eyes, into mine, and his staying hand went to mine. But he had come this far. I knew he was aching for it now.

“No, don’t,” he murmured.

“Don’t fight it. This is what you came here with me for.” I stood my ground, my fingers grasping the waistband of his jockstrap. Trembling, he gave up the battle, taking his hand away, and I slid the jock down his legs, going down on my knees in the move, touching my cheek to his thigh as I pulled it down. He was in erection. I knew he would be. I let my hand glide up along the curve of his buttocks and he trembled to my touch—but he didn’t draw away.

Several minutes later, after I’d photographed him naked against the transparent wall toward the world—a world that was becoming more transparent and open by the minute to the young man, I said, “Now, perhaps a few shots on the bed upstairs,” smiled, and held out my hand to him.

* * * *

Just as The Glass House opened to the world of Lake Como, I opened Gino to the world, helping his inner wants and desires to come out, coaxing him to stand in the open, totally honest to the world. And, yes, I obtained personal pleasure in doing so. It was enough that he was a virgin and I was getting the pleasure of divesting him of that. Once I was inside him and he had adjusted to my size, though, I did lose control a bit and ride him hard. I ripped his virginity out of him in the missionary position on the bed in The Glass House’s master bedroom, hanging there, totally open, fully exposed, above the lake waters, nothing but transparent glass between us and nature. I was gentle with him at first, but once saddled, I took it all.

He struggled under me initially when he began to realize what suffering would be involved in the earning of his sexual freedom—and then again when I was fucking with vigor—but I held him down, being so much heavier, larger, and more experienced in this than he was. It was a chore getting inside him, with one hand clutching his throat, holding his head to the mattress and the other arm encasing his waist and raising his pelvis to just the right angle for the penetration and invasion.

Once in position and starting to penetrate, he writhed under me, struggling to keep me out of him even while declaring he wanted me inside him—the signal to me that he genuinely was inexperienced—until all possibility of that had vanished and I was in, holding there, feeling him stretching to my need. Then he slowly surrendered to me, his body relaxing into slight spams and low sobs. I had cupped his head between my hands and hovered over him. He had gasped as I breached his sphincter with my cap, holding there until he began to open to me.

He came to life again when I was stretching him open, putting strength behind the backswing, and thrust again and again, but he rode it out with me, coming a considerable time before I did.

Gino was no longer a virgin. This was what he’d wanted. I knew that, because I had once been where he was—when I, like him, was nineteen.

I left him when I’d come and went down the glass stairs to the liquor cabinet. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d raced by me, clutching his clothes as I tossed off a Scotch neat, but he didn’t.

I went back up the stairs and he was still there on the bed, on his back, his eyes watching me come up the stairs. I stood at the bottom of the bed, looking at him, when he spread and bent his legs and beckoned to me. Yes, indeed, he wanted this.

As I was fully saddled again, taking him in the doggy position this time, and he collapsed under me, I removed my hand from his throat and my arm from his lower belly, turned him, ran my hands down his perfectly formed legs, and grasped his ankles. In one smooth move I raised and spread his legs into a wide V—a V for victory—not just my victory; his as well—for the vigorous backstretch of the taking. Then, having notched up another young male virgin, I moved into the dance of the deep, fully possessing fuck. Thrust, thrust, thrust, as Gino arched his back, panted hard, moaned softly, and clutched at me—first to hold me away, eventually to hold me to him.

Gino ejaculated in his own hand and gave up the struggle. I fucked on. Hump, hump, hump. Lifting the hips, slamming down, hearing the gasp, embracing him closely, lifting the hips, slamming them down . . .

I was deep inside him, raw flesh in no-longer virginal passage. He had stretched to my need and, both having been possessed and having come, Gino realized the game was up and went with the fuck. I let his legs down and, legs bent and feet flat on the mattress beside my knees, the young man went with me, breathing hard, moaning deep, moving his hips with me, rocking with me, working with me in the taking and milking of the cock. His hands glided up my chest, dwelling on my pecs, before moving around, to my biceps and there his fingers pressing, releasing, pressing, releasing, in the rhythm of the fuck. I had him. He was mine.

It was Gino’s victory as much as mine. I had taken his virginity, but like me at the same age, he had wanted to be divested of it. It had become a burden to him.

When I fucked him again later, putting him on all fours; covering him from above, his face looking openly and honestly out into the world of Lake Como through the transparent glass; and mounting and penetrating him in a doggie fuck, we fit perfectly and moved into a coordinated rhythm and harmony of moans and pants like we had been lovers for years. All would be fine with Gino.

After I breeded the young man in the position of the dog, he turned onto his back as I climbed off the bed. He lay there, lightly panting, legs spread and arms akimbo, vulnerable, open, looking at me with the eyes of worship—an adherent now. Well, I knew the attitude of one who believes and worships. His eyes followed me around the room and into the en-suite bathroom, where I stood at the toilet, taking a piss, and to the shower. I came out and stood at the foot of the bed, naked, drying myself off. His eyes never left me. I dropped the towel, grasped my cock, and stroked it. Gino raised his arms, his hands grasping the rungs of the headboard. He spread and bent his legs, placing his feet flat on the mattress, using them as leverage to raise his pelvis and roll it up toward me. Never did his worshipful eyes leave me.

“Per favore—Please,” he whispered, offering himself to me again, fully surrendering to me.

I laughed, moved onto the bed between his sacrificial spread thighs, put myself into position, and slid inside him. Immediately, his shapely young legs spread and raised, by his own volition, into a V for victory.

“Sì, sì, sì!” Gino cried out, as he set his hips into countermotion to my thrusts.

Yes, this young man was mine indeed—or any man’s who Gino now fancied. An assured convert to the world of men-in-men. He, like The Glass House, was unabashedly open to the world. He was what he was.

“Perhaps it’s time you saw the rest of the house,” I said.

“The rest of the house?” he asked.

“Yes, it has a secret. I have paid you well for the photos I have taken so far. There is a special clientele for other photos, though, that I can pay so much more for.”

Then I took him down to the ground floor of the house, to the rock walled, ceilinged, and floored chamber under the glass cube that contrasted so much with the transparency of what rose above it. Down here, in the foundation of the building, dwelled a sexual torture chamber with all of the equipment, implements, and toys needed to use a young man fully.

Gino whimpered, but he did not resist, when I bound him to the St. Andrew’s cross by wrists and ankles, facing the rock wall, and photographed him. He whimpered even more and moaned when I picked up a hand whip, but again, he did not resist. I gave him merely a taste of that side of the life, but from his cries of passion I knew he would want more.

* * * *

I gave Gino a coffee at the café where we had met, the two of us sitting amicably and watching the world go by, Gino sitting somewhat gingerly forward in his chair for reasons we both knew. I knew Gino saw the world in an entirely different light now, assessing every man who passed by him as a prospect with a cock—and perhaps, with a hand whip or a riding crop. I knew that because I had done the same after my first time—when I was the same age Gino was now.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he said, turning his gaze, still worshipful, to me. “I could come tomorrow—”

“Is there no one else, a man here, who you have looked on with favor?” I asked. I was an encounter man, not a commitment man, and, besides, I would be returning to New York in a few days.

Gino looked a little embarrassed and lowered his eyes. “There is Primo, a handsome farmer from San Rocco. Ten years older than me, I think—very muscular. He works hard in the fields. I am somewhat afraid of him. He is a hard man.”

“But now you have discovered that you are drawn to hard men?”

“Yes,” he said, somewhat reluctantly admitting that, even now.

“And have you and this farmer—?”

“Just petting. Nothing more.”

“But he asked you for more?”

“Yes,” Gino answered, hesitantly and shyly.

“He’s asked you for much more?”

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to give him more?”

“Yes,” he admitted, again almost reluctantly.

“Go to your Primo, Gino. Be with him. Give him whatever he wants. He will worship you.”

As I was returning from the café, where I had left Gino to contemplate his new, freer world, I saw that a runner had stopped at the gate of The Glass House and was looking at it with wonder in his blue eyes. He was a beautiful young man—eighteen or nineteen, I reckoned. He was blond, well-muscled, a gorgeously proportioned body in his athletic shorts and T-shirt. There were signs even if I hadn’t already assessed him. He had pierced ears with diamond studs and his fingernails were polished. I raised my camera and clicked off photos as I approached. I stopped at the gate—between where the young man was standing and The Glass House.

“Stai facendo un sacco di foto con quella macchina fotografica,” he said, and then when I showed I didn’t comprehend, he repeated in English, “Oh, you don’t speak Italian. English perhaps? I said that you were taking a lot of photos with that fancy camera of yours.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I said, giving him my rendition of an “I’m interested in you” smile. “I’m a men’s fashion photographer. I can’t help taking photos of gorgeous young men.”

He smiled, obviously pleased. “Is this your house? It’s wonderful—so open and ‘out there.’ Open to the world. No apologies for what it is.”

“Yes, I think you understand it fully,” I said. “A young man of a house among stodgy old men of traditional lakeside mansions, comfortable with itself and its desires, opening its legs and raising its tail to the world.” I was taking a chance, but I was good at gauging the interests of other men.

He gave me a strange look and then smiled and gave a little laugh. “Yes, that’s a perfect way of describing it.”

“Would you like to come in and tour it—to discover the delights that such a house can offer?”

“Yes, I’d love that.”

I lifted my camera. “How about a shot of you against the house?”

“Certainly,” he said, the two of us changing positions. As we brushed past each other, I placed my hand on his forearm and our progress was arrested. We stood there, close, looking into each other’s eyes. All I needed to know conveyed between us in that gaze and him not shrinking away from my touch. Just to be sure I dropped my hand to his hip. No resistance there either. Subtly, or perhaps not too subtly, my fingers pressed in under the waistband of the athletic shorts—even under the elastic band of his jockstrap, to touch him on the hip bone, flesh on flesh. There was no defensive reaction. We broke contact and he stood by the gate, in front of The Glass House, as I backed up to the street curb and lifted the camera.

“Perhaps without the T-shirt,” I said. “You’re such a sexy young man.”

He immediately pulled the T-shirt over his head, posed, and smiled. “Is this an audition for a men’s fashion shoot?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I answered. This was going to be so easy. I pushed the envelope. When I came close to him and he turned again, I slapped him across the face. He gave me a shocked look and a hand went to his cheek. I fired off another shot of him in that pose. “You are even more attractive in shock and a bit of pain, giving an open, genuine response. Does a bit of pain frighten you?”

“Yes, a bit,” he answered. “Just a bit. It’s also a bit exciting.”

“You still want to come into the house with me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded.

When I came out of the bathroom, Luca was on his back on the bed floating above Lake Como inside the wall of transparent glass, naked. When he saw me, also naked, at the foot of the bed, in erection, he smiled, spread his legs, put his feet flat on the mattress, pushing up on the soles of his feet, elevating his pelvis, offering himself to me. Spread and totally open to me.

Yes, it was easy.

“I take more specialized shots for a discerning clientele,” I said. “It can be very profitable for a young man like you. There’s a chamber in the base of this house with special equipment that helps some men with their arousal fantasies. Perhaps after we finish here—”

“Yes, fine,” Luca said.

“There will be a bit of pain—but, as you said, excitement.”

“Yes, fine,” he repeated.

 

To be continued.