Adopted to Inherit

The young, refined Italian celloist loved the wild, impromptu nature of the assault. He loved big black cocks too. As Jomo was fucking him, René's mind was going to Devan Grey, though, wondering how his compared in size and thrusting power to this black escort's. He also wondered if Grey could be had for free. Jomo cost a pile of cash.

They didn't go back into the theater. René had pulled a key to one of the rooms the festival engaged at the Mills House Hotel for the duration of the festival to use as needed. René needed it. Jomo fucked him again on the hotel room bed. He'd brought restraints and a small hand whip with him in a leather purse he'd brought to the assignment. He'd been engaged by René before. He knew the young, sultry Italian wanted to be manhandled and punished a bit.

He tied René's wrists together, forcing the young man's arms above his head, as he pushed the young Italian down, belly to bed, and feet on floor at the foot of the bed. René yelped as Jomo struck his bare buttocks, thighs, and back again and again with the whip, not putting enough effort into it to raise welts that would last for a day or more, but enough to make René writhe under him in pain-passion, much of the pain only imagined, as the big black stood between the young man's legs. When René was thoroughly cowed and whimpering, Jomo cruelly grasped his ankles and hooked them on his shoulders, arching René's torso back and raising his buttocks. Jomo worked his extraordinarily thick and long black cock into René's passage and fucked him to each man's ejaculation.

Jomo fucked René twice more in the night. He was very expensive, but René got more than his money's work. He'd left the money on the hotel room dresser. He lay there early in the morning, watching the big black bull pad around, taking a piss, shaving, showering—all with the door to the bathroom open and Jomo knowing that this exhibition of the goods was part of the service—and dressing. He did most of it in silence. His pride was wounded and he'd been a bit more cruel than he had intended to be with René out of irritation. While they'd fucked the second time on the hotel room bed—the third time, as they'd done it in the theater men's room first—René had mentioned Devan Grey again and mused about his size and how well he was equipped. Jomo didn't like a john talking about another black stud when he was fucking him.

As Jomo picked the money up from the dresser, René sat up in the bed and said, "I'll wait for a while before I dress and leave. We won't want people to know we were here together."

"Whatever," Jomo muttered and left. As he was leaving the hotel, he passed Devan Grey coming in. He wondered then whether René had called the black stud to come to the hotel as soon as Jomo had left the room and Grey had hopped on over. That thought soured the rest of Jomo's day.

When René left the hotel, he went directly to the old Charleston-style mansion he shared with his now-father, Gino Capilati, on East Battery Street. He let himself in and went upstairs, to the living room level and into the kitchen. The coffee already was made. Then he went up to the next level and to Gino's bedroom.

"You may go now, Gerti," he said. "I'm home until Maddie arrives."

Gerti, an elderly black woman in a nurse's uniform, smiled and said, "Your father has had a quiet night, Mr. Capilati. He didn't need all of the painkillers he was allotted for the night."

"That's good to hear, Gerti," René said. "Very good indeed."

He sat where Gerti had been sitting, in an upholstered chair beside the bed where Gino Capilati, breathing on a respirator through a mask, was lying on his back on one side of the bed, eyes closed. He was asleep. He got so little sleep now that René didn't wake him. Gino had wanted to know how the premier of the opera had gone as soon as René got home, as he was trying to keep up right to the end with what was going on at the Spoleto Festival he'd helped foster for so many years. It was merciful that he was asleep, though. René had left the opera at the interval. He'd be there again this afternoon and would have to gather what he could tell Gino from that performance.

When he heard the front door close and the night nurse was gone, he went out into the hallway and made a cellphone call—to Collin Prince. Then he stripped and showered and came back into the bedroom and lay down on the bed beside Gino. They would both sleep for a while. There was a time when they'd done far more in bed together than sleep. That had been some time ago, though, and there'd been none of that since Gino had adopted him as his son and heir.

As he drifted off to sleep, René thought of the timing of Gino's passing. It wouldn't be long now. They'd kept even the illness a secret; it had come on quickly. Gino didn't want any hint of it to intrude on the atmosphere of this year's Spoleto Festival. Everything in his life in recent years had been devoted to the festival. He'd even given short shrift to his duties to the Florence orchestra. Only René had been accorded higher priority attention.

It wouldn't be long now. René had Gino in mind as he started to drift off, but as he sank deeper into sleep, it was big black bulls and their cocks he was thinking of—and the image of dreadlocks came up more arrestingly than Jomo's handsome face.

* * * *

His name was Greg Fields, yet another tenor from the Westminister Choir from New Jersey, serving the Spoleto Festival in various ways. We were all in Speedos or less, leaving little to the imagination. I was standing off to the side, Greg beside me, my hand on his hip, holding him, trembling, close to me while we watched Mike Trent, the Westminister Choir tenor I'd fucked at Collen Prince's house the previous night being gang banged on the back porch of René Capilati's beach house on the Isle of Palms.

Although Trent seemed a bit stressed at being manhandled and taken from all sides, he'd expressed willingness and was being paid for it. He settled down, though. I would have stepped in if I'd thought it was too much for him.

Greg knew I was going to fuck him and that if that didn't put him out of it, he might be gang banged like Mike Trent now was getting. The idea had Greg trembling, whether from anticipation or fear, or both, I didn't know, but it increased my lust to know I'd be pulling the emotion out of him when I got my dick in him.

René had invited Collen to a beach party on the Saturday of the Spoleto Festival to include select gay men performers and staffers of the festival. His beach house—really that of his adoptive father, Gino Capilati—was on a barrier island to the north of Charleston. Collen had been asked to bring me, which he did, and the attire for the day was bathing trunks. I'd caused quite a stir in mine, the men surprised to see that under the tuxedo they'd seen me in earlier, I was a beefy black bull, with a breast and arm tattoo of a sailing ship, rings in my nipples, and a long curve and Prince Albert cock ring that couldn't be disguised easily in a skimpy red Speedo. Needless to say, I had guys rubbing up against me and volunteering to bottom—or to share other guys with me.

René, exhibiting mighty fine in his neon blue Speedo, stood off to the side, looking amused. I had no trouble, though, understanding that Collen had been invited to the party only because he'd bring me.

The heat of attention went off me, though, as the idea surfaced to gang bang Mike Trent. He played along until it got under way and then I saw that he was getting a little apprehensive of all the men involved, some six or seven of them, with René, Collen, Greg Fields, me, and a few others more as onlookers. His reluctance, though, was only fuel for the fire, and it wasn't long before he was on his back on a table on the porch with two guys holding his arms immobile, two holding his legs raised and spread, and a guy between his thighs, feeding his cock into Trent's hole. The young man was bobbing his head off the end of the table and mouthing off until yet another guy turned Trent's face to him, plugged Trent's mouth with his cock, and held the young tenor's head in position to take the face fuck.

I had no real interest in joining the fucking of Mike Trent. I'd already had him the previous evening. I'd developed an interest in another Westminister chorister, an athletic-looking blond named Greg Fields, when I'd gotten into the swing of the party, and he'd returned the interest. I was just as pleased that the focus of attention had gone from me to the gang banging of Mike Trent on the back-porch table.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach," I said to Fields.

"Sure," the young man said, and we went out of the back of the beach cottage, across the sand dunes on the wooden walkway down to the beach, and then, without either of us voicing a direction, we naturally turned toward a complex of attached villas called the Sea Cabins, where a pier went out from the sand dunes into the ocean, the only long pier in sight.

By unspoken agreement, we walked under the pier and up to the base of it, snuggled in to where the pier jutted out from sea oats-covered dune. It was here, out of sight from anyone who wasn't walking under the pier, high up, where it started, that I fucked the young tenor the first time. He lay there nestled along my side, the two of us kissing and fondling each other, pushing our hands down the front of the Speedo of the other and stroking each other, until he wanted to trace the sails of my ship tattoo with his tongue and to suck on my ringed nipples. We were reversed on each other, he on top of me, lying there in the sand, the bottom of the pier just above us, when we went into a sixty-nine, him declaring how huge I was and that he'd never had a PA ringed-cock in his throat before, and me working to get one of his balls in each of my cheeks and vibrating them by humming, when I rolled onto my side, reversed him, and pulled him into my side.

He struggled a bit as I put him in position, his buttocks snuggled into my groin as I lifted and folded his right leg up into his chest.

"No, wait. Slow. Maybe we shouldn't—"

But we did. He panted and grunted loudly, almost audible over the sound of the surf rolling up onto the beach below us, as I worked my cock—raw—inside him. But he settled down to groaning and panting hard as I fucked him and fucked him, jerking with me and crying out as I unloaded deep inside him.

He pulled away from me, grabbing up his black Speedo and, struggling into it as he raced down under the pier toward the water, veered off half way down and ran into the surf, diving into a wave. I followed him at a more leisurely pace, walking into the surf, diving in, and swimming out to where he was standing, beyond where the surf broke, water up to his nipples, and looking back at me as I approached him.

I moved on him slowly, but relentlessly, my eyes boring into him, telling him I was going to fuck him again and there wasn't anything he could do about. He whimpered as I reached him and gathered his body into mine. But he didn't give me any trouble that time. I pulled him into my chest and into an embrace. We kissed on the lips, tentatively and then hungrily, as I reached down and pulled, first his Speedo and then mine, off our legs. He stepped out his, ready and open to me this time, having been reamed to my specifications more painfully under the pier. There, facing the beach, standing in water coming nearly up to my nipples, I put the blond tenor on my cock, also facing the beach. His hooked his knees on my hips and leaned forward, his arms dangling down. I cupped one of his pecs with the palm of one hand and palmed his belly with the other, and pulled him on and off my cock to another ejaculation. He just lay there in my arms, taking it all.

When we walked back to the beach cottage, we found the party in full swing. The music was loud, the dancing was frenzied, and René was passing around pills of different colors. I took several. I hadn't met René when I arrived at the party. I did so now, both of us pretty high and free with our hands and our insinuations when we talked. I danced with him and with Collen and with so many others I couldn't name. I touched and fondled and was touched and fondled. I fucked some South American guy up against a wall in a corridor, with other guys watching us. He was some sort of guitar player in one of the performing groups at the festival—Spanish guitarists, I was told later. I put him against the wall, his knees hooked on my hips and his arms around my neck and pushed his back up and down on the wall with the strength of the upward thrusts of my cock.

We were being watched by several of the other guests.

After that, half of the men were buzzing around me—all of them wanting a piece of me—all of them offering a piece of themselves to me.

I found myself in a bedroom at the back of the house, where I had the notion of a group of guys gang banging Mike Trent again on a bed and of me saddling up between his thighs to a lustful chorus of "A helping of big, black cock"; his panicked look; his high-register yodel of pain-pleasure as I thrust inside him, held his hips in my hand, and started to pump. I registered surprise to discover that my cock wasn't the only one inside him—that there was a guy under him. Mike writhed between us as we took him together. And then I remember nothing but music washing over me and a kaleidoscope of waving colors in my vision.

The pills were kicking in.

* * * *

When I had become fully conscious, I found myself on a bed in a bedroom I didn't remember from before. I remembered the guy riding my cock from before, though. I was flat on my back. René Capilati was straddling my hips, facing my feet, his hands on my knees, and he was bouncing up and down on my cock, taking me deep, open well enough to take the full thickness of me. We were both naked. I had a momentary flash of anger and disappointment that he was dominating me—that I hadn't had the pleasure of hunting him down and putting him under me. But then, he was doing it so well, that I went into a "what the hell?" mode, grasped his waist between my hands, and went with the ride.

The early morning sun was filtering in through two windows obviously facing the ocean, as the gauzy curtains were fluttering in a breeze and I could both hear the surf and smell the slight fishy tang of the sea. I reasoned that since I last was in Capilati's beach house and he was bouncing up and down on my cock that this must still be his beach house and the bedroom must be above the porch Mike Trent had been gang banged on.

Capilati arched his back, held on the rise for a second or two longer than the cadence he'd been holding, grunted and gave a little yelp, and came on my thighs. He plunged down on me and I blew as well. With a laugh, he rolled off me and bounded off the bed. He wrapped himself in a blue silk robe and left the room, saying "There'll be coffee first, then breakfast."

When I went downstairs, it was obvious the party was over. No one else was there, although the evidence of it having been quite a party was still there. The downstairs was one big room, with the kitchen area set toward the road and separated from the living area by a breakfast bar. René, robe hanging open to show a beautiful, willowy body, was holding two cups of coffee in his hands. He held one out to me.

"You are quite the black bull of a stud, aren't you? And you lasted all night."

"Did I?" I asked. "I came with Collen Prince. Do you have him hiding somewhere? I probably shouldn't be here."

"You came with me—several times," he said, with a low laugh. "Why shouldn't you be here? I think we were magnificent together. Collen went back to Charleston last night. Spoleto is still going on and he has duties."

"Don't take our riding well together too seriously. I'm into casual encounters . . ."

"I've noticed," René interrupted.

"It's coming back to me. If I remember right, after we did it the first time last night, you asked me if I wanted to leave New York and move in with you in Charleston."

"You remember right. You were that good in the fuck and I think I need a black bull in my life."

"I don't do relationships, especially with someone who has attached himself to a rich man—someone who's been adopted by a much older man but had been his lover before."

"Ah, you gotten filled in by the social set and you don't like gold diggers."

"You got it in two. Where is Daddy, incidentally? He wasn't upstairs behind a peephole watching us perform, was he? That isn't his kink, is it? I know of Gino Capilati's work. I have too much respect for him to be plugging his boy toy behind his back."

"My, the rumors do get nasty, don't they?" René said, taking my empty coffee cup from me and turning away from me to refill it. "This is not a forgiving town. Gino's not here. He's back in Charleston, in bed, attached to a respirator. I very much doubt he'll be in bed long now, but he won't leave it alive, I don't think. He's dying. We haven't told anyone because he didn't want that to intrude on Spoleto this year. The festival means everything to him."

"I thought maybe you meant everything to him—so much that he adopted you." I wasn't in the mood to be generous. It might seem that I fucked everyone in sight—well, it was true that I fucked every sexy guy in sight who I could—but I had standards. I didn't cut in on anyone else's guy when I knew they were a couple—not as long as they were a couple. That I wasn't given a chance to do the right thing here put a sour taste in my mouth. And, as I said, I knew of Gino Capilati's work, and although I thought he was a bit pathetic to be adopting his far younger lover to keep the guy in attendance while he died, I could see why he would do it. I could also see why the younger guy would stick around if he was assured to inherit. Adoption was apparently what Gino had to do to keep René around. I didn't have to respect René for forcing that deal, though.

"But yet you are shopping before Gino has passed," I said, not in the mode to give him slack.

"Yes, I suppose that's what people here are saying," René said, turning to me and handing me the refilled cup of coffee. He wasn't rising to the bait; he wasn't choosing to get mad and throw me out of the house on my tail—although he wasn't of the size to do that to me if I didn't go willingly. "They're saying I'm a gold digger, just after his money. That I'm catting around behind his back. If they knew he was dying they'd really be down on my case even harder, wouldn't they? Well, I guess it's 'won't they?' isn't it?"

"It goes with the territory, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose it will, regardless, even though that's not the whole story of it."

"Well, if you don't mind, I'll get a shower and then, if you will, you could drive me back to Charleston. You don't have to feed me breakfast. Thanks for the coffee, though."

"You've been honest with me, Devan, so I'll be honest with you. I'll tell you, but I'm not asking you to pass it on. I live and work in Milan. I'm only here because I couldn't leave Gino to die alone. His ailment made him cantankerous for the last year. There aren't too many of his old friends left here in Charleston who would give him the attention he needs in these last few weeks."

"I do understand he needed to have you to rely on and adopted you to keep you here—adopted you with the promise of inheriting."

René laughed.

"Is that funny?" I asked.

"In a way it is," he said. "You have no idea what I'll inherit or why I let him adopt me. He wanted to do it. He was obsessive about it, but his reasons weren't the one's that convinced me to go through with it."

Now I was curious. "I don't understand."

"No, you don't. And the tight social community in Charleston doesn't understand, and I don't want them to."