Do You Trust Me?

"So, shall we drink and share sea stories?"

"Yes, if you wish," Angelo said shyly, trying not to look at the American's magnificent cock, but not being able to take his eyes away.

"Good. We talk and become better acquainted. I know that your name is Angelo. Mine is Brett. We drink . . . and talk . . . and then we fuck."

Angelo did a double-take and his jaw dropped to his chest. But the American did seem to notice or skip a beat.

"I'll fuck you, if you don't mind—unless you insist otherwise. Then we can go up to the house and you can meet Doran. He wants to fuck you too. Anyone ever tell you that you had a friggin' beautiful body and smile? You could be in movies."

"I'm . . . I'm sorry. I can't. I don't . . . I never. I will take you back to the beach in my small boat." Angelo had turned red in a blush and, without effort, taken on a crestfallen look that the American, Brett, couldn't help but understand as genuine surprise, consternation—and regret.

It was, perhaps the note of regret that helped Brett to brazen it through. "Sorry, dude, my mistake. I assumed when I saw you making out with the other guy last night—"

"We . . . weren't, how you put it, making out. Guido wants something I can't give him. It was nothing. You just saw a minute of mistake. Sorry. I take you back."

"No, I'm the one who is sorry. But you can't blame me for trying, and you looked like you were interested enough. And I say we don't burden your small boat with this bottle of Johnny Walker. Let's go ahead and polish it off as long as we're here. What do you say? And about that chap last night. You can't give him what he wants because he wants to be fucked? You know what that should mean to me, don't you?"

"You are confusing me. I don't know what it should mean."

"Well, then, let's back up a bit. Would you like to help me with this bottle of Johnny Walker or not?"

"Well . . . OK."

* * * *

"Do you trust me?" It came in a whisper, but it shot through Angelo's brain like an electric jolt. "Trust me to treat you right. Let me fuck you." The strike of awakening from the follow-up was even stronger than the first.

The empty liquor bottle was rolling around in the stern of the boat, moving from one side to the other with a tinkling sound as the waves gently rocked the boat. The two plastic glasses were closer to hand in the bow where the two men were stretched out against each other on a pile of netting. The glasses made more of a clunking sound as they rolled against the gunwales.

The bottle had been three-quarters empty, with Angelo doing most of the drinking, before Brett had put and arm around the young Italian's shoulders and pulled him in close. Angelo couldn't remember—or say—when or why he had let the American kiss him. All he could have said that it was both sweet and hot in comparison to the one Guido had stolen from him the previous evening.

After that first kiss, Angelo lost count and hardly even noticed when Brett had moved a hand into the unbuttoned fly of the shorts that Angelo had unbuttoned himself some time earlier when he was watching the American on the beach with the binoculars—and forgotten to do up again.

Angelo had whimpered something about it being wrong and that he didn't do such things—had never done them before—when Brett had taken possession of his embarrassingly hard cock and had mentioned something about trust that first time.

"But you're not saying that you don't want to do them," Brett had countered in a matter-of-fact voice. Angelo had said nothing to this.

The American had urged the last of the bottle of Johnny Walker on Angelo and then had taken the young Italian to heaven with a slow hand job that Angelo had objected to with his voice—but only with his voice. His hips had a mind of their own and it wasn't long until, with a low laugh, the American loosened his grip on the cock, and Angelo moved his hips, fucking himself to ejaculation in the encasing hand.

The bottle finished, and Angelo panting and whimpering, putting up some semblance of a struggle that was a stronger one in his mind than in reality, Brett had lowered himself to stretch on the netting in the bow of the boat and brought Angelo down to cuddle on top of him with the young man's shoulder blades against Brett's chest.

Angelo's visual world was revolving in a motion that went with the gentle swaying of the boat, his ears were ringing, his thoughts were sluggish in forming, and he was moaning quietly as Brett's hands roamed over his body.

"Trust me. I will be good to you. God, you have a beautiful body," Brett was murmuring.

Angelo could feel the man's insistent hard cock rubbing up the small of his back.

"Let me inside you. I will fuck you to heaven."

The American's hands had moved to the waistline of Angelo's shorts, which, miraculous, still rode his hips. He pushed the shorts down a bit, and Angelo objected weakly. A hand went under the waist of the shorts and along the curve of Angelo's butt cheek, moving toward, and then to, the rim of his entrance.

"You say you've never been fucked before? Yes, it feels tight. But it will open for me. I will do you right."

Angelo moaned and reached around and grabbed the American's hand through the thin material of his shorts. Not even he was sure if he had done so to try to force the hand away or to hold it there.

But then, again with a low laugh, the American was pushing Angelo's shorts down off his hips.

"Do you trust me? Trust me to treat you right. Let me fuck you. Roll onto your stomach. Let's get these shorts off. I'm going to fuck you."

Gathering all of his strength, Angelo pulled himself out of the American's embrace and went, first, up on his knees. And then up into a crouch. He looked down into the face of the American with an expression of torment and consternation. "Sorry. I can't . . . I don't . . . Just sorry. It is too much."

Bret turned on his back and locked his fists behind his head, stretching out to put his musculature at its most compelling. His hard cock stood straight up from his neatly trimmed groin. A beatific smile was planted across his face. If he was angry or frustrated, it didn't show.

"Well, if you can't you can't. But I gave you a hand job. Perhaps you could return the favor?"

Angelo's expression was one of regret and instead of kneeling back down, he stood up and backed up a step toward the door into the cabin. "It isn't right . . . this isn't me. But I thank you for the Johnny Walker."

"I think it is you, dear boy," Brett answered. "Although," he followed with a sigh, "Perhaps it isn't you on this particular day. Too bad about the hand job, though. It could have moved on to something wonderful." He moved to stand up, and as he did so, Angelo retreated to the cabin doorway.

"Give me a minute and I'll take you back to the beach in the small boat," he said, and then he pulled himself into the cabin. There wasn't anything he really had to do in there; he just needed to be separated from the temptation long enough to gather his wits and his resolve.

The realization that the man really did intend to put his cock inside him had pulled Angelo out of the drunken stupor—but only enough for him to realize that he was no match for the charm, assurance, and power of the American. He didn't know what he'd say or do when he came out of the cabin. Chances were good, he knew, that he would lay down on the netting and open his legs to the American. All he knew was that he couldn't stay in the cabin; he had to go out on deck.

But if he went back out on deck it would be admitting that he wanted the American to fuck him. It was all so confusing. Why couldn't he admit to what he knew he wanted to do?

He went back out on deck. The American was gone. Angelo went to the bow of the boat and could see the bobbing head of the man as he swam his way back toward the beach.

With mixed feelings, Angelo quickly took in his nets and dumped the wriggling fish down into the hold of the boat. Then he took the boat out to sea—not north toward Positano, but directly out to sea to where he knew he'd be alone.

He was hard and throbbing throughout this time, and when he was safely away from the land, he stripped off his shorts, stretched out on the netting at the bow, made an opening down through the netting for his dick to slide into, and fucked the netting to his relief, all the time imagining what the gorgeous American hunk could have done with him.

* * * *

Angelo remained on the boat that night, bobbing back and forth out at the edge of the Positano harbor. His face was turned to the lights of the town, climbing the ring of mountains surrounding it on the three sides not taken by the waters of the harbor, without being aware of the beauty of setting. he was scrunched down in the stern of the boat, resting on a netting coil, almost in a fetal position, and trying to make sense of his life and, more important, of his desires and what, essentially, he was.

He still hadn't decided what he wanted out of life—or rather he had, and the prospect of it frightened him—when the rays of the sun were beginning to lighten the sky to the west, behind the mountain tops. Almost on autopilot, though, he began to prepare for the needs of the day. He motored back into the pier only long enough to offload his scanty catch from the interrupted previous day and then he was chugging back out of the harbor. He turned the boat north this morning, not wanting to be seen again—at least so soon—off the villas to the south. He told himself that it was because he never intended to go there again, but, in reality, he just didn't want to exhibit eagerness for what he had rejected the previous day.

As the boat slowly cut through the waves, he checked his nets for rips, grabbed a bite to eat from what he had gotten at a food stall when he'd offloaded the previous day's catch, and turned his face north. He knew it would be a short fishing day, because he was near exhaustion and had two sets to play at the café that evening. He would need to be back by early afternoon so that he could clean himself and catch a few hours of sleep before nightfall.

Angelo had trouble sleeping that afternoon, even though he was dog tired. He couldn't help think about the blond American, Brett—and wondering—no, hoping, if he was honest—that the man would be at the café that evening. If he was there alone, without the older man, Doran Kokinos, maybe Angelo would try to talk with him, would maybe tease him a bit, make him think that Angelo would go with him and then back off. But then maybe changing his mind and doing what he knew he wanted to do. He would do nothing if the Greek was there, though. He scared Angelo more than a bit, especially because Angelo was attracted to him too. The American had been so forward the previous day, and, in hindsight, Angelo knew exactly what the liquor was for—and what it had caused. The American was so casual and nonchalant about the whole thing. Taking Angelo for granted and thereby showing a lot of conceit. Angelo thought he might get a bit of his own back, do a little bit of teasing, and when the American's tongue was hanging out, just walk off.

Then maybe they'd be on equal ground and could start anew. Then maybe Angelo would be ready to take the plunge. Or could consider again doing so.

The American indeed was there when Angelo arrived at the café just before he was scheduled to go on for his first set. And the older Greek man wasn't there. But Guido was. The American, Brett, and Guido were at the same table the American and the Greek had been at a couple of evenings before. And Guido looked oh so proud of himself. Just like he'd already gotten satisfaction for someone else that he had begged from Angelo and not gotten.

This didn't exactly make Angelo feel relieved. He tried to remember if he's seen Guido out in his fishing boat that day. But he couldn't remember seeing the boat in the harbor, and Guido always went south to do his fishing. Angelo almost always went south too, but today he'd gone north, so it wasn't unusual that he couldn't remember having seen Guido out in his boat.

They weren't touching or anything, and the American had his eyes on Angelo during the whole set, but Guido had changed. He now had his eyes on the American rather than on Angelo. And Angelo couldn't really tell by the end of the set that no touching was going on. The American kept his hands above the table, but Angelo couldn't have sworn that Guido hadn't put his hands on the American's forearm or thigh a time or two while Angelo sang.

The American had already fucked Guido. Angelo was sure of that, and the knowledge disturbed him, even though he knew it shouldn't have.

Angelo had to take a piss after his first set. He was only gone briefly, having intended to watch the pair from behind the beaded curtain separating the back rooms from the main one before his next set began. But the two were gone when Angelo came back to do his second set.

He knew he didn't play and sing too well for the second set. He was stewing over what he was missing out on—and that perhaps Guido was not—and still arguing with himself over what he wanted.

He must not have done too badly in the set and must have conveyed his sense of both melancholy and sensuality, but a tourist followed him out of the café when he'd packed up and left and asked to give him a blow job—and maybe more. Angelo just gestured in such a way to hold off the man, shook his head, and walked on. He was still struggling with himself about whether this was something he wanted. He did know, however, that he didn't want it from this tourist. If he wanted it, he wanted it from the brash, arrogant, and superconfident blond American, Brett. And then, perhaps more dangerously, from Doran Kokinos.

The next morning Angelo took the fishing boat out he had intended to go north again. But as he was preparing his boat for launch, he saw that Guido's boat was still in the harbor. This, in itself, was not unusual or a surprise—Guido was not an early riser by preference; by preference he was someone who stumbled down to the harbor in the midmorning with a bad hangover—but it was perplexing to Angelo nonetheless. He was still mulling over the possibilities when it seemed that the boat turned itself south—and then positioned itself off Doran Kokinos's villa.

Angelo purposely didn't look at the beach as he cast his nets off both sides of his boat. But he no longer could pretend to himself that he wasn't interested, and he turned his eyes toward land. He could see a figure on the beach—possibly more than one. He scrambled to find his binoculars and, when he did, lowered himself in the stern of his boat, with only his face peeking over the gunwale, and put the binoculars to his eyes.

It wasn't one; it was two. And they were joined. Guido was standing on a large beach rug, facing the sea and bent over at the waist. The American, Brett, was standing close behind him, with his hands on Guido's hips. Angelo knew what they were doing—but he denied it to himself, reasoning that they may be fucking, but there was no way to be sure.

Almost as if they wanted Angelo to be sure, though, Brett stood back and Guido went down on the blanket, feet facing the sea. Brett knelt between Guido's spread legs, raised and spread further Guido's legs with hands grabbing the young Italian's ankles, and crouched over him. The coordinated movement of the two left no doubt in Angelo's mind that the American was fucking Guido. The writhing movement of Guido's body clearly told Angelo that Guido was enjoying it—and was getting vigorous attention.

They fucked like long-term lovers.

Mouthing a cascade of choice Italian profanity, Angelo pulled his nets back into the boat as quickly as he could—swearing in earnest when he saw that he'd caught some fish that would need to be swept into the hold before he folded the nets. But as quickly as he could, he had stowed the fish and nets and was chugging his boat back to sea—toward the north, where, he admonished himself, he should have headed to begin with this morning.

* * * *

On the next day Angelo fished to the north, and although it was not his evening to play at the café, he traded with the woman who usually sang that night and did his two sets. The American, Brett, didn't show up. Neither did the Greek shipping magnate, Doran Kokinos, or Guido, for that matter.

The following day, Angelo's boat went south, almost on its own volition, without Angelo willing it to do that. Guido's boat was still in the harbor when he left—as it had been the previous morning and in the afternoon when Angelo returned to Positano. The fishing had been very good, but Angelo hardly noticed that. His mind was completely elsewhere.

That night, when Angelo came from the back of the café to play his second set, the American was sitting at a table well removed from the small platform on which the musicians performed.

One of the waiters, a saucy, flirty little thing named Luciano, who Angelo had always thought was much too flamboyant in manner but who the solitary men tourists of a certain aspect seemed to appreciate, hovered around Brett's table. While Angelo was playing—although he was so tense and frustrated that he hardly knew what he was playing and singing—Brett pulled Luciano down into his lap for a few minutes, and Luciano squealed and pretended to be much flustered. But that little demonstration didn't last for all. All of the time he was manhandling Luciano playfully, the American was staring at Angelo.

After the set was over, Angelo came into the audience and sat down at the American's table.

"You came to the café," Angelo said, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say, but the American didn't seem at all concerned about opening the conversation.

"Yes, I couldn't stay away."

"The coffee is the best here for coming out at night."

"I wouldn't know. I came for the music."

"I'm afraid I didn't sing and play well tonight," Angelo said. "I was thinking. I've had quite a bit to think about."

"You sang like an angel—as always. I hope you were thinking of me fucking you. That's what I've been thinking of."

"You were thinking of fucking me when you were fucking Guido?" Angelo said, accusingly.

"Yes," Brett answered straight away. "I wanted to fuck you and you didn't let me."

Angelo looked away. He couldn't look the American in the eye. After a brief pause, he just shrugged.

"Now you want me to fuck you, don't you?" Brett said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. "You came back to see if I would swim out to you again and you found me fucking your friend, Guido. Now you want me to fuck you on the beach like I was fucking Guido, don't you?"

Angelo just kept looking away and shrugged again. Brett had a hand on his crotch under the surface of the table. Angelo made no attempt to make him move it.

After a long minute, Angelo spoke. "There is a grotto—a cave—down near the water's edge at the rock outcropping marking the northern edge of the property you are staying at. Did you know that?"

"No, I did not. Is that a place you would like to show me?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"It's nighttime now. It's dark out"

"There are lanterns at the top of the steps down to the beach. My car is not far from here. I have a blanket in the trunk. And here, see, I have condoms in my pocket. What else do we need? And if the lanterns don't work, I can fuck in the dark."

"I have never . . ."

"I can be gentle. I will teach you. You know you want me to fuck you. You must trust me. Do you trust me?"

The American was only gentle at first, but once they were deep into the fuck, Angelo didn't care, and Brett was too intensely into it to care either.

The American stopped his car in the driving court of the villa and they kissed there. They also unzipped each other there and each stroked the other's cock, and Angelo gave no objection when Brett leaned back in the seat and moved Angelo's face to his lap.