The Glass House

Seeking Satisfaction

“Come inside. For you, no cover fee.” The muscular man reached out and gripped the belt of Derek Jungman’s shorts and pulled him toward the stairs that led down into the half basement under the sign and poster advertising the bar below. “You will have experiences such as you’ve never had before. I can tell you are interested. You are just what they’ll love down there. They will show you a real good time.”

Derek nudged forward toward the man. He was tempted. It had been too long. The big bruiser doorman at Leathermen’s, a gay men’s BDSM club on a narrow side street off the Via Giacomo Baranello near the Genoa, Italy, docks, spoke to the young German in coaxing tones. There was no question that the handsome, perfectly formed, young blond man, with the inviting pale blue eyes and shy smile, was intrigued. There also was no question that he’d be welcomed with open arms in the club. There was little question what would happen to him if he went down into the club either.

“There you are, Derek. I turned at the tailor shop and you were gone.”

The man approaching where Derek and the doorman were conversing in low tones, Marcelo Mancini, was tall, trim, expensively dressed, and maybe in his forties. He’d already started to go gray, but his hair was groomed—everything about him was groomed—and on him the gray sideburns were distinguishing. He looked every inch the popular city TV anchorman that he was. He also was Derek’s man—the man who worked hard to keep Derek out of the clutches of other men.

He had every intention of continuing to be the man who covered and took care of the twenty-two-year-old German who had come to Genoa as a tourist and had fallen under Marcelo’s sway on a beach south of Genoa one afternoon. Later that night, Marcelo had taken care of Derek on the bed in his flat, with Marcelo lying between the then-twenty-year-old’s thighs, choking the youth, Derek’s wrists bound together by a silken scarf, and controlling him in breath play, while he pumped him full of cum. What had intrigued Derek was how civilized and refined Marcelo could be in public and how demanding and dirty he could be in private. The rough sex had cooled over the subsequent two years, but Derek had remained in Marcelo’s bed, being fucked almost nightly.

What Derek was being tempted with outside the leathermen’s bar was just what had kept him with Marcelo—hoping that his relationship with Marcelo would return to the form it had started in.

“I was bored,” Derek said, as he allowed Marcelo to take his arm and lead him back to the Via Giacomo Baranello. “You have so many suits. I don’t know why you are having another one made, or why I need to be there—why I always need to be there.”

“You know I value your judgment in clothing taste,” Marcelo said, stopping and drawing Derek toward the wall of a bank at the head of the narrow street they had just been in, where both the tailor shop and the Leathermen’s club were located. “And you know that we’re going up to Bellagio on Lake Como for me to narrate that special show on the celebrities who own places on the lake.” What he didn’t acknowledge was that, indeed, he kept the young German as close to him as possible from fear he’d lose him. Marcelo had just turned forty. He was afraid of the aging process—not just in his work, where on-camera appearance was oh so important, but also with his possession of this much younger, supremely sexy young man.

“That club back there. Your birthday is coming up and I’ve been trying to find something special to give you—and sorry that I’ll be working in Bellagio on the day, but you’ll be there too. I’ll rent someplace nice on the lake and we’ll celebrate your birthday there. But, as for a gift, I saw that the thug at the door to that club back there had you in deep conversation. Is that what you would like for your birthday? Would you like to go to a club like that some night? I know we were doing it pretty rough at the beginning, and I’ve always wondered—”

“No, of course not. I was just teasing with that man. Just being with you, for any time you can break away from your work at Lake Como: That would be a wonderful birthday present. Since we’re down near the water now, though, do you think we could go to the seafood restaurant, Luigi’s, in the harbor, for lunch?”

“Of course, certainly,” Marcelo said, taking the young man’s arm again. Holding him like he was afraid the gorgeous German youth would escape him or be snatched from him by younger, more muscular men, like that doorman back there, and guided him south on the Via Giacomo Baranello toward the inner harbor of Genoa. As they walked, people passing them gave Marcelo looks of recognition and then speculative looks at Derek, as if seeing the two together gave them a revelation of something they’d suspected as they watched Marcelo on TV. But Marcelo didn’t give a shit about that. Let them speculate—let them know. As long as he could keep Derek with him, that was all that mattered.

On Derek’s part, as they walked, he was thinking of the issue he had barely avoided coming to the front. Yes, Marcelo had been rough with him at the first, but what Marcelo didn’t know was that the cooling down of their sex—the sex becoming more conventional even while it continued to be frequent—had been rough on Derek. He didn’t think that Marcelo had any idea what Derek had come from in sexual experience—what he’d become used to and what got his motor going. The money that had paid for his Italian vacation two years earlier had come from a Berlin BDSM club, where Derek had danced the pole at nineteen and let men—not just let them, but reveled in them doing so—beat, whip, bind, fist, and whatever else they had wanted to do with him—in public, on the stage.

Derek’s arousal spiraled up into the heavens from being manhandled and mistreated in sex—fully used. The voyeur aspect of it—having men watch him being taken hard—was more than half of the arousal value for Derek. Although his coupling with Marcelo in the beginning had been in the lower reaches of this realm, Derek had thought that it was just a prelude into Marcelo being more comfortable with taking Derek more fully and cruelly. But, alas, it hadn’t. By the time Derek realized that their relationship wasn’t going there, he had fallen in love with Marcelo. He had also fallen in love with what Marcelo could give him in terms of lifestyle. He was working on accepting what Marcelo could and would give as being enough for him.

He had almost blown it back there at Leathermen’s. He had been so tempted to go inside, to get naked, to open himself to the men inside, and to let them use him and abuse him—and stand around, dicks in hand, watching it all happen. He had gone too long without being totally used and taken to heaven. He’d think of coming back sometime when he wasn’t with Marcelo. But he always was with Marcelo. Marcelo even insisted that Derek come to the studio, acting as his valet, for broadcasts. Derek was always under Marcelo’s control. But, then, being under a man’s control to that extent was part of what Derek found arousing. He was in that zone of getting enough to stay with Marcelo but not enough to be fully content with Marcelo.

Such a dilemma.

* * * *

Derek lay there, on his belly, on the white-clad king-sized bed—everything in the room was white—gazing out of the glass wall onto Lake Como, the bed seeming to be floating over the lake. He was moaning—perhaps a bit more deeply than he felt, but Marcelo was trying so hard. Derek was grateful Marcelo was giving it such a go. It was Derek’s birthday and Marcelo was trying to make it memorable, although Derek thought maybe the older man already was late for his documentary shoot in Bellagio, to the southwest, on the finger lake.

Marcelo had awakened him with a kiss in the hollow of his throat and a hand stroking his cock. They’d arrived late the night before and come right up into the second floor of the fascinating glass cube. Marcelo had said it was called The Glass House, and it had lived up to its name. It had been lit up like a lantern when they swung through the gates off the SS36 rim road and the glass cube had appeared from behind a hill protecting it from the road. It was set right next to, and visually over, the surface of the lake. The transparency of it was fascinating. Derek could see right through its two floors, every wall, exterior and interior, being glass, the floors being transparent acrylic, and all of the furniture being low-slung, sleek, and in white.

Speaking of the need to drive the half hour back along the lake’s edge, southwest, to Bellagio the next morning to start filming, Marcelo had taken Derek directly to bed, with a minimum of exploration of the glass cube, and had fucked him, on the bed suspended over the dark lake, with the lights of the mansions along the far—but not far at all—shoreline glittering, winking at them in their sex play. Marcelo had fucked him in the missionary position, his hands on Derek’s throat, controlling the young man’s breathing in much the way he’d done to Derek’s approval when they had first met. Derek, his eyes bugging out, had clutched at Marcelo’s choking hands while Marcelo was thrusting up inside him. He was being tested, but this was the most passionate their lovemaking had been in months, and Derek was climbing the clouds toward heaven, moving in that direction if not quite being able to get there. Still, this was better than usual.

Derek spread and raised his legs around Marcelo’s humping hips, displaying a V for victory, not caring whether anyone passing in a boat on the lake below could see that they were having sex in the glass tower.

They had slept, both exhausted, and Marcelo had awakened Derek with the intent to have sex again, not long after dawn, entertaining anyone out on the lake who might be sailing by.

Once again, the sex was rougher than usual. There was a reason for that.

“I’m sorry I have to work on your birthday,” Marcelo murmured as he moved over Derek’s prone body, Derek stretched out on his belly. “I’d prefer being here, giving you the attention you deserve, of course.”

“You’re doing fine,” Derek answered, almost meaning it, knowing that Marcelo was doing his best—that he was being rougher than usual.

Marcelo was straddling the young man’s back, facing Derek’s feet. The young man gave a low moan as Marcelo ran his hands up Derek’s inner thighs, causing them to open—and then moving the hands up to fondle, knead, and spread the young man’s butt cheeks. The thumbs of both hands went to the rim of Derek’s channel and started working there, opening the hole up.

Derek began to pant. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, this time meaning it. Marcelo moved one hand under Derek’s hip and the German youth raised his pelvis, giving the hand access to his cock and balls, which the hand possessed, teased, and started to stroke. “Fuck. Shit. Oh, FUCK!” Derek cried out, as one of the older man’s hands kept jerking him off and the fingers of the other hand cruelly penetrated Derek’s ass and brutally finger fucked him.

Derek’s pelvis rocked with the rough attention and he whimpered a litany of “Fuck, shit, and, oh, yes” as Marcelo took him to an ejaculation with his hands.

With a little cry, Derek released and collapsed on the mattress. Marcelo didn’t leave him. He slid up onto Derek’s buttocks, took his own cock from half to full hard, and, in a reverse position, penetrated Derek’s channel with his erection and, leaning forward and grasping Derek’s ankles, fucked the whimpering, panting, and moaning young man to his own release.

Moving around to stretching behind a shimmering Derek, Marcelo embraced him momentarily, but only briefly, kissed Derek on the neck, and whispered, “Happy birthday, lover. There will be a surprise later. I have to drive to Bellagio for the day now.”

Derek whispered, “Thank you,” meaning it. It was good—very, very good—for what Marcelo did.

Derek, remaining prone on his belly on the bed, an arm hanging over the side, watched the shadow of Marcelo’s figure shower through the glass-block wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, the opaque glass being as much privacy as anyone would get in this glass cube and then, when Marcelo was gone, he turned his head out onto the lake, which was coming alive with a school of small sailboats, a few cruising or resting small yachts, and what seemed to be a black dredging barge.

He loved Marcelo for bringing him here to this fascinating glass house floating over the lake rather than making him stay nearby in a stuffy Bellagio hotel while Marcelo worked. And he loved the effort Marcelo had made to give him a rough, possessing fuck—no, two. It had been almost enough—not quite, but almost. But Derek recognized that it was above and beyond what Marcelo had been managing to do for the last year.

That was something to think about, though. This was the best that Marcelo could do—and it was just “almost” enough for Derek. This was Derek’s twenty-third birthday. He was getting older, but he wasn’t old—and he certainly wasn’t pushing forty, as Marcelo was. Was “almost” enough for the rest of Derek’s youth?

He dozed off trying his best to be able to honestly answer that question with a “yes.”

* * * *

Derek woke to the sounds of activity on Lake Como, the waters of the lake amplifying and carrying the sound up to the second floor of the glass cube. He rose, happy and nearly satisfied with the night and early morning attention from Marcelo. He appreciated how hard the man had tried to make his twenty-third birthday memorable. Each year now was memorable, though, and not in a good way. The older Derek got the further along he got without returning to those months in the Berlin BDSM club, where he had been on a perpetual high, so desired and attended to by men, his young body used to the limit. Each year he ticked off now was another year of losing the youth of his body and not achieving the ultimate satiation.

He went to the bathroom, pissed in the toilet, and thoroughly showered. All the time he was aware of how exposed he was, surrounded totally by glass. The sensation aroused him, causing him to go hard, and, as he dried off, he spent extra time rubbing his erection. Returning to the bedroom suspended over the lake and fully open to view—both to looking out and others looking in—he was drawn to the glass wall directly over the lake not so much by the sounds from the lake but by seeing that there were boats out there on the relatively narrow finger lake—a dancing school of small sailboats out toward Bellagio, a black barge up toward the top of the lake, beyond the nearby lakeshore town of Colico.

He did a double take when he realized what was happening on the roof of a good-sized yacht straight out on the lake from The Glass House. Two figures were in an embrace. There was a set of binoculars on the white dresser against the bathroom wall. Derek retrieved those, and still naked, went to the window and trained them on the yacht. Two young men were stretched out on the roof of the yacht cabin, on beach towels. One, the one on the bottom, was on his belly, at full stretch, his arms raised above his head, hands clutching at the rim of the cabin roof toward the bow of the boat, holding himself steady. His face was turned toward The Glass House and showed the expression of being well taken. His hips were elevated a bit, pushed up by him on his knees, enough to allow his cock and balls, which were being milked by his partner, to hang free under him.

The young man on top was covering the bottom at full stretch, with his knees encasing the thighs of the man on the bottom. His left hand was under the bottom’s belly, milking the bottom’s cock. His right hand was under there too, palming the bottom’s stomach. The top was fucking the bottom in deep slides of a long, hard shaft. Both men were handsome—long and slender, but well-muscled; sultry dark-haired; deep-tanned, with distinctive bikini tan lines. They were holding perfectly still other than the moving, well-rounded buttocks of the top rising and falling, clutching and releasing, as he fucked the bottom, and the bottom swaying his hips ever so slightly in the rhythm of the fuck.

Derek’s free hand went to his own cock, as he stood, naked, at the window, and he stroked himself in synch with the dance of the fuck on the small yacht. As that continued, he let the binoculars play to the left and right to take in what else he could see on the waters of the lake. He laughed when he realized he wasn’t the only one using binoculars. A beefy, body-builder muscular man, just in shorts, on the black barge, had binoculars as well—and he was training them on The Glass House—on Derek at the glass wall of the master bedroom.

Derek laughed and waved his binoculars. The big bruiser on the barge waved his back. He turned and motioned to someone, and another sailor, of equal bulk—both of them thuggish looking, late thirties or early forties, the second one bald and bull necked—came forward, took the binoculars, and trained them on Derek. As he was looking, the first sailor stripped off his shorts. He was hung and in erection. The second sailor handed the binoculars back and stripped off his shorts as well. He too was a bull.

Now all three of them were naked and stroking. Derek scanned the binoculars back to the yacht, but the young men were finished and the yacht roof was deserted. He went back to looking at the older, hung, thuggish sailors on the barge, and the three of them stroked together. At length, Derek laid on his back on the master bed, the side of which was turned toward and close to the window wall out onto the lake. He put a bolster under the small of his back, his butt on the edge of the side of the bed, raised his legs in a widely spread V, grasped his cock, and continued beating off, fully realizing that he was in full view of the two men training the binoculars on the second floor of The Glass House.

Derek clearly was offering himself to the two bruisers on the barge.

He heard the bell ring at the door of the rock-walled ground floor of the house and insistent beating on the door. Rising from the bed, he looked down at the lake and saw that the black barge now was tied up to The Glass House dock, across a driveway from the entry door into the rock-walled ground story of the building. The two bruisers weren’t to be seen on the barge.

Shuddering, but smiling, and fully erect and throbbing, he descended the two stories of glass suspended-tread stairs to the rock-walled foyer below in the ground floor that Marcelo had not given him a tour of the previous night when they had arrived late and gone directly up into the glass cube.

* * * *

Derek had pulled on a pair of shorts to answer the door, but they weren’t on him for very long. When he opened the door, he was facing two grinning burly men—the two muscle-bound thug types who had done the tease with him just now from the black barge in the middle of Lake Como, the barge that now was tied up to the dock of The Glass House. The thugs were in shorts too, but they didn’t have theirs on for long either.

“Io sono Lando. Questo è Sandro. Siamo qui per il buon compleanno, quindi te ruvido,” said one of them and then, when Derek gave them a confused “I don’t speak a de Italian” look, not having bothered to learn much of the language in the two years he’d been living in Italy, the first one pointed to himself and said “Lando” and then pointed to the other and said “Sandro.”

So, that much Derek got, but before he could go forward with anything more in the translation of what they wanted—he didn’t really have any trouble discerning what the two men wanted; he’d teased them about their wants—they were muscling themselves into the rock-walled foyer and shutting the entry door behind them.

The two men obviously knew more about The Glass House than Derek did. For instance, they knew what was inside the rock-walled, ceilinged, and floored chamber that was under the two stories of glass cube above them. Derek hadn’t taken the time to explore that far yet. They knew the secret of The Glass House and he was only finding out what it was, as they opened a door from the foyer to the right, in the rock wall, picked Derek up, both they, and he losing their shorts in the process, and carried him into a sexual torture chamber, complete with equipment, toys, and dungeon atmosphere.

There was no answering to Derek’s pleas to know what was happening, what they were doing to him, as the two worked happily, babbling to each other in Italian and expertly carrying Derek across to the far corner of the chamber, where a black leather sling hung from the ceiling on chains. Derek struggled, but to no avail—and only half-heartedly because this had him hard and panting—and they quickly had the young German trussed up in the sling, his wrists bound high on the chains at his head and his ankles to the chains as his tail. His bare buttocks hung over the foot of the sling.

After ten minutes of Lando kneeling below him and eating his ass out and Sandro standing by, jerking Derek to a prodigious ejaculation, and offering his own cock for the German to suck on, Derek was begging for the hunky Italian thugs’ cocks and, one after the other, Lando and Sandro fucked him. Then, after they’d come the first time themselves, they found some toys in the chamber and worked on stretching Derek further, first with a couple of graduated-sized dildos and then with graduated-sized rubberized balls on a string. Derek was into it, crying out “Yes, yes, yes” and “Sì, Sì, Sì,” to the attention, for the Italians in case they couldn’t understand the English and even “Ja, Ja, Ja,” when the ecstasy of it took Derek into his own native German language.

“Frick mich! Frick mich!” he called out, and the two men fricked him—fucked him hard.

All of this was leading up to a journey into yet another room on the ground floor of The Glass House that Derek also hadn’t discovered earlier. When you entered the foyer on the ground floor, the garage was on the left, under the hill that had been constructed to screen The Glass House from the rim road. Behind that, inside the hillside, opening to a sunken patio beside a pool terrace was another room—most likely built as a servant’s room, with a bath. This room had two double beds in it, each outfitted with restraints at the four corners and drop-down lead restraints at the head and foot of the bed frames.

Lando and Sandro bound Derek to the bed, facing up. Sandro wormed his way under Derek, so that the young German was stretched on top of him. Spreading Derek’s legs with his and grasping the young man’s hips and raising Derek’s pelvis, Sandro put the German on his cock and raised and lowered him until Derek was comfortable with being fucked by the Italian thug’s big cock from below. Then Lando came up on the bed, on his knees, between Derek’s and Sandro’s spread legs, grasped Derek’s hips, crouched over him, mounted and penetrated him, and then Derek was writhing and crying out between the two hung Italians as they double fucked him.

After all three men had come again, the two Italians pulled out of Derek and left the room, leaving Derek to wonder what they were planning next—not at all sure what was going to happen here, but happy that it was. They wouldn’t know, of course, but this was his birthday, and rough fucking like this was exactly what he would have asked to get on his birthday. Marcelo had done what he could, but this was more raw, taking him higher into the realm of ecstasy.

He heard voices in the foyer—three voices, not just two. The third one wasn’t Marcelo. Marcelo hadn’t returned. Only one man entered the chamber, and it wasn’t either Lando or Sandro. It was the devil. A foxy, hirsute satyr, older than the other two men, ugly enough to be both fearful and fascinating, his mouth set in a “Well, what do we have here?” sneer. The other two men had been hung, but this man—or devil, or satyr, or whoever he was—was monstrous in his erection. He wore hip-high leather boots, a crisscross of a black leather harness on his hirsute barrel chest, and a greased-up black leather glove on his right hand. There were rings in his nipples and a thick Price Albert ring in the bulb of his cock, and a cruel smile on his face.

The monster climbed up on the bed where Derek was spread-eagled, facing up, drove his greased fist up into the young man’s ass channel that two hung men had just opened up, and brutally fist fucked the young German, as Derek writhed under the onslaught, rocked his hips against the cruel, thrusting fist, and screamed out in German, “Ja, ja! Faust mich. Gib es mir!—Yes, yes. Fist me, Give it to me!” Pushing his pelvis up with the leverage of his feet flat on the mattress, Derek moved against the fist to the point where the satyr just held it steady with a malevolent grin on his face and let Derek fuck himself on the fist.

This was what Derek remembered most from the Berlin BDSM club—learning to take a man’s fist. Marcelo had never done this, but Derek had certainly had it done—on stage, with men watching—before he met Marcelo. What this satyr was doing to him was a trip down memory lane.

When Derek had come, the satyr pulled his fist out of the young man’s ass, exchanged it for his monster cock, and fucked the stuffing out of the German. Derek loved this too. Derek even loved it when the man released him from the restraints on the bed but only to carry him across the foyer and back into the sexual torture dungeon, where he hung Derek on a St. Andrew’s cross, facing the brick wall; whipped him on the back, buttocks, and thighs, and then saddled up behind him, palmed the young man’s belly, pulled his pelvis back, mounted him, and fucked him again.

Derek was puddled at the base of the X-frame, on the stone floor, panting and purring for twenty minutes before finding out that he was all alone. All three men who had manhandled and sexually tortured him from the morning into the afternoon of his twenty-third birthday were gone. He dragged himself up into the glass cube, to the master bedroom bathroom, drew a hot bath, and sank into it with a sigh of satiation.

* * * *

It had been quite a ride and Derek wouldn’t pretend he hadn’t enjoyed it—even the painful bits—because it made him feel alive and completely satisfied. Now he’d have to face the music, though. What would he tell Marcelo about what happened? How much of it would he tell Marcelo? He couldn’t hide the welts on his back and butt and thighs. And that was the roughest part. Who was the third man? He was such a devil and had spiraled Derek further up into arousal heaven than Derek had been in years. But he’d been so nasty. He could possibly tell Marcelo about the two sailors, or whoever they were, because he could give some form of the enticement story with the binoculars. But the third man? He’d come in without permission—and he’d done all of those deliciously evil things to Derek’s body.

Did Marcelo know he’d rented a house with a sexual torture chamber on the ground floor?

He was still soaking in the tub and was still trying to devise a story to weave for Marcelo, when Marcelo returned to The Glass House and Derek didn’t have to weave a false story at all.

“Did you enjoy your birthday present?” he asked when he came into the bathroom, crouched down beside the tub, and the two had kissed, with Marcelo’s hand going into the water to search for, find, and gently stroke Derek’s cock.

“My birthday present? The sex we had this morning? Yes, of course. I told you I had.”

“No, the sex I conjured up for later in the day. Didn’t two men, Lando and Sandro, visit you?”

Two? It was three, Derek thought. But hearing the names of the two again cleared so much up for him. “You sent those two big bruisers—Lando and Sandro—to give me a rough fuck? I didn’t know you’d sent them.”

“They were supposed to tell you that they were a birthday present. They didn’t?”

“They said something in Italian, but I didn’t understand it—they just pushed themselves in . . .  and they had quite a time with me,”

“I hope it was as rough as you have been wanting. I know you once took it much rougher than I give and you were lurking outside that leather bar the other day. I decided this was what you wanted. Were they rough enough . . . did they do that?” Derek had turned in the tub to take a washcloth out that had slipped into the water and in doing so, he’d revealed his back with the welts.

“Yes,” he said.

“I’m sorry if they were too rough. When I engaged them—from a brothel in Bellagio, owned by the same man I rented this house from, Vincenzio Attakun—I had trouble telling them what might be too much. Attakun volunteered to do this himself, but he scared me. He was so cruel looking, like a satyr. I didn’t think you’d want what he looked like he’d enjoy doing with a man. Lando and Sandro, though—they whipped you? Was that too much?"

“No, that wasn’t too much.” But they didn’t do it, the third guy did it, Derek thought, most likely this Attakun guy. But Marcelo hadn’t mentioned sending a third guy yet, so Derek wouldn’t either. In fact, Marcelo probably would have been quite upset to think that the brothel owner had been here too—and what he’d done.

“I take it they took you into the sex dungeon on the ground floor then?”

“Yes. You knew about that—that there was a sexual gym here?”

“Yes. It’s why I rented this house. I don’t know how half of that stuff down there is used.”

“Would you like to know what stuff down there I like—that maybe we can explore?” Derek asked.

“If that’s what you want,” Marcelo answered. “I can learn to give you more of what you want—if that’s what you want.”

This is working out quite nicely, Derek thought. But who in the hell was that third man? Was it the Attakun guy? Would Marcelo tell him where this male brothel was in Bellagio? Could Derek find an opportunity to visit it—and Vencenzio Attakun?

 

To be continued.