Breakout

"Did you?" I asked.

"No. Just one more man—before you. After I became eighteen. I am Nick."

"Hello, Nick. I am Frank. No, you aren't too young for me. You are very experienced for having only one more man—and recently. I find that hard to believe. You were wearing expensive clothes; the material and cut are expensive. Are you a university student or are you a prostitute?"

"You want to know if I am from the streets or if I have run away from a rich lover?"

"I would like to know if someone is missing you, yes."

"Do I fuck like a prostitute?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered. He seemed pleased with that answer.

"Yesterday was an important day for me." I was to find that he enjoyed talking in circles and avoiding a point we were approaching.

"God, I hope it wasn't your eighteenth birthday."

"No that was months ago," he said, with a laugh. "Well, a few months ago."

"What does that mean?"

"I went with a man from the street yesterday. He told me his name was Mario. I was celebrating and I went to the street. And I went with Mario. It's the first time I went with a stranger from the streets."

"You said you'd only had one man before me—someone other than this Mario."

"I mean someone regular."

"And this someone regular taught you to fuck like a prostitute?"

"Yes. He wants it all the time. He can't keep his hands off of me. And he is very experienced."

"An older man?"

"Yes."

"And I am the second stranger you have gone with."

"Technically, I didn't come here with you. Technically, you brought me here and I was unconscious. I wasn't unconscious enough not to know you were feeling me up, though."

"You were unconscious on booze, I think. I don't think it was drugs. At least I hope not." I wasn't about to start talking about having felt him up. No doubt that's what told him he could climb in bed with me.

"No, it was not drugs—at least I think not." He gave me a sexy little smile. "Although Mario may had done things with me that I did not know about. Maybe more than you did to me while you thought I was out of it. And I admit that you brought me here but that I came into your bed by my choice. I liked being felt up by you. I may have sunk more into being out of it. Did you fuck me when you brought me here and I still was drunk? Mario fucked me after I was drunk, I think. But I let him fuck me before too. Mario fucked me more times than I can count. He was hard for me the whole time."

"No, I didn't molest you before you came to my bed." That, technically, wasn't true. I had known everything there was to know about him with my hands while I was taking the wet clothes off him—I had explored his body far more than had been necessary to get him undressed. I couldn't help it. "You had never gone with a man from the street before?"

"No. I went with Mario because he said he wanted me—that he wanted to do things with me that I wanted to do yesterday—and with a man of my choosing. I went with him because he was a handsome man with muscles. I went with him because he would be rough and he would dominate me and I could pretend we were lovers. He said he was a soldier and I had dreamed of doing it with a soldier. And because he showed me his cock and I wanted a cock inside me—the cock of a stranger."

"Choosing a stranger yesterday like you chose me last night?"

"Yes. He was a sexy man—like you are. You have a very big cock, by the way. I am impressed. Bigger than Mario had."

"So, you never went with a stranger before Mario?"

"I didn't say that."

"Ah, but you did say that." How many men had Nick been with? It was becoming more evident that he was, in fact, a street prostitute.

"I meant for the first time, yesterday and last night, the men were of my own choosing."

"When I found you, you were either drunk or on drugs. Did Mario give those to you?"

"Yes. He gave me vodka and he showed me drugs, but I don't think I took them."

"And then what did he do?"

"Whatever he wanted. Everything. He was a soldier. He did what we did last night—you and me. He fucked me. He fucked me again and again. He was more forceful, though. You're bigger than he was, but he hurt me more when he put it inside me. He didn't care about me. He only cared about getting himself off."

"And then?"

"Three hours and then he went to sleep. I left the hotel he took me to. Did you paint the works in that wonderful room out there that's all windows—windows not just making walls but the roof too?"

So, I was right. It was the studio greenhouse he liked about the apartment. "Yes. It's why I chose this apartment—for the natural light."

"Are some of them of the Luca you talked about in your sleep?"

"Yes."

"But there are paintings of others—of other young men my age."

"Yes, there are," I said. "Luca is your age."

"Is that the age you like? You like to fuck eighteen-year-old boys?"

"Yes." I'd said that already. "If you've had breakfast and are feeling OK—no bad effects from the drink and whatever else from last night—I'll take your clothes out of the dryer, and I'll help you get back to your home or your school or wherever. Do you live in the city with your family or do you live at a school?"

"I live at sort of a school. You don't want to fuck me again first?"

"It isn't about what I want. It's about what we should do with you."

"I want you to paint me, like you have the others in those paintings out there. And then I want you to fuck me again. I rode you last night. I want you on top of me, fucking me. I wanted to celebrate yesterday, but Mario just wanted to fuck. Don't you have anything you want to celebrate too? You're an artist. Don't you want to paint? You can paint me. I don't need to wear any clothes for the paintings you do."

"No, you don't have to wear any clothes," I said.

He came off the stool, spinning out of the sheet, and leaving it in a puddle at the base of the stool as, naked, he scampered into the art studio.

I couldn't help but smile. There was no question he was a teenager. But he was legal. I went by American rules. I'd already checked his billfold when I was putting his clothes in the washer. He was eighteen or he was carrying false ID.

Yes, I had something to celebrate. That was yesterday, but today was another day. And, yes, I wanted to paint Nick. He was a gorgeous boy. And he was eighteen. And, yes, I wanted to fuck him again. I wanted to control him, to have him under me, me inside him.

When I entered the studio, I found that he'd covered the studio couch with the blue velvet coverlet I'd used for most of my "eighteen-year-old boys" series. I painted other subjects, of course. This series, selling mostly to private collectors, brought in the most money. He'd also gathered some of the paintings from the series together. He was moving around in the nude. He was possibly the most beautiful angel I'd even seen. He obviously had left the bed long before I did and had already spent considerable time in the studio, exploring.

"Most of these are of the same subject. Is this your Luca?"

"Yes."

"What about this one? Is he eighteen?"

"His name was Michael. He was eighteen when I painted that. He would be twenty-three now."

"Michael? Was he an American? He doesn't look Italian."

"His father was a Jamaican. The father was one of my professors at art school in New York. The New York Academy of Art. That's the unusual look. His mother was a violinist in the New York Philharmonic. I became close to the family because I shared both of those interests. Michael's mother welcomed me into their house and helped teach me the violin. That's where I met Michael. He had just started at Columbia University—in music. We shared that interest. No one else looks like Michael. He was a beautiful boy. He probably is a beautiful young man now."

"Did you fuck him? Did his father know? How old were you when you fucked him?"

"If you want me to paint you, we should make a start." Yes, I had fucked Michael. And, yes, his parents found out. That's why I left New York—why I'd moved to Milan. Why I couldn't go back to the States; I was thirty-three. Michael was in his twenties and on his own now. I could go back to New York and legally put Michael under me now, if he was willing. But I didn't want Michael at twenty-three. I had wanted him at eighteen—and I'd had him then.

I'm sure Michael had outgrown me and wouldn't want me now—that I would be too old for him now. I didn't want to go back to New York and find that out, though.

Nick posed, naked, on the blue velvet material covering the studio couch. I let him pick the pose. He was achingly beautiful. It would be a magnificent painting.

After an hour, he said, "Is that enough for now? I don't think I can stay in this position for much longer. Can we take a break?"

"Yes, that's enough for now. I have the basic positioning fixed." I'd actually gotten farther along than that. But I hadn't been able to stop. He was just too beautiful and alluring. I could finish the painting blindfolded now, if necessary. His luscious body was engrained in my brain. But I wouldn't tell him that. I wanted him to pose again. But I'd promised to take him to wherever he belonged after we'd finished with this.

"It's coming onto noon. Do you want me to fix you something to eat now?"

"No, I want you to fuck me now," Nick said, opening his arms in welcome to me.

So, I fucked him—on the studio couch, where I fucked the other young men who posed for me there. I was in erection. I had been for some time. Five long strides and I was upon him. He was on his back, legs spread, arms open, and I just came down on my knees between his thighs, running an arm under his waist, tilting his pelvis up. My other hand went to loosing his hair and letting it cascade down, cupping his head and bringing our lips together in a deep kiss. I entered him strongly and deep. He looked shocked and grimaced, but he held and I felt him stretching, opening to me. I couldn't help thinking he had taken a big cock regularly before. We'd both been in a haze in the night. Now we were fully conscious, both of us fully tuned to the fuck.

"Sei così grande," he murmured.

"Yes, I'm big," I whispered. "Sorry."

"Don't be. Fuck me."

He writhed under me for a few seconds, surprised by the immediate penetration and the shock of the intensity. But within seconds, he was folding himself to me, latching onto my shoulder blades with his fingernails and moving his hips in consort with the rhythm of my thrusts.

"You've taken it big before," I murmured as we set into a rhythm.

"Yes. Giovanni." He didn't elaborate. Not Mario. Another man had entered the list.

We fucked and we fucked.

Nick showered afterward and, at last, regrettably, found the washer and dryer in my bathroom and retrieved his clothes and dressed. While I fixed a lunch, he roamed around the living and dining area. At some point I heard the, at first vigorous and then haunting, strains of the opening to the "Summer" Violin Concerto No. 2 from Antonio Vivaldi's Four Seasons, being played by a virtuoso violinist, floating in from the living room. I smiled at the young man's curious exploration. He'd found my radio. Not only that, but he'd found a piece I had been struggling with for months and had little hope of mastering.

But as I walked around the kitchen island and into the room to announce lunch, he had quickly turned the radio—and the song—off. I was surprised that in some ways the teenager could be skittish about being here with me and doing what he'd think I'd want rather than what he wanted. It was fine with me if he wanted to listen to the radio. I told him so, but he just gave me a funny look and bellied up to the kitchen island and the food I'd set out.

After lunch, we fit in another hour-long painting session, followed by a fuck, doggie this time, with Nick willingly on all fours and me mounted high on his sweet little ass and fucking him in a steady rhythm. We fit like a finely motion-coordinated machine now—like long-time lovers. I took from him, but I also gave back, making sure that his pleasure was maximized, as mine was.

Exhausted, then—both of us—we napped on the bed, naked, and in each other's arms. The celebration I'd wanted to have the previous day had come one day late, but it had come in manifold pleasure. I only regretted that I'd have to return Nick somewhere sometime before morning. Someone must be looking for him. Street urchins didn't wear expensive-cut clothes and speak good English as he did. I had decided that he was a university student who was having some sort of mild emotional breakdown and had had to break out of his mold.

I didn't want to take advantage of whatever crisis he was having. Of course, I already had.

My interest in Nick, now that I was stepping up to adult responsibility—now that I had known him several times carnally—was that he not be playing truant or innocently giving himself to me because he was having some sort of emotional breakdown. I needed not to take any more advantage of him than I had already. He had been a fully willing participant, but he was just a teenager and I was a mature man. The greater responsibility was mine. At least after today I'd have a painting to remember him by. I had no intention of ever selling this one—just as I would never sell the one of Michael. I did sell ones of Luca. I had paid Luca for everything I'd gotten from him. Luca was a street prostitute.

That evening I walked him back to the Piazza San Babila. We walked around the fountain and then I took him to a café on the square and fed him a gourmet meal.

"Where do I take you now?" I asked. "Someone must be looking for you—unless you are just a street urchin and need somewhere to stay. If so—"

"I'm not a street urchin. I have someplace to go if I want to. I just don't want to go there yet. I don't want to go back to Giovanni yet."

"Giovanni? You mentioned that name before. Who's Giovanni?"

"I picked Mario—and I chose you," the boy said. It was maddening how he could tease me by talking in circles. "I didn't pick Giovanni," Nick continued circling. "He picked me. He gave me no choice. He made me OK with it—made me want it. He's big—big like you—when he has it inside me, I can't think. All I can do is feel, to feel owned and fulfilled. Like with you. But it's all about him and what he wants. With you, it's like it is us, together. One. It's just different. Better."

"Giovanni is the older man, the experienced man, the man who taught you to fuck like a prostitute?"

"Yes. I don't want to go back yet. I want to go home with you. I want to sleep in your bed again tonight. I want you holding me, being inside me. Giovanni fucks. Mario fucked. You make love."

And so that's what we did. But I wasn't the romantic he made me out to be. I fucked him.

* * * *

I woke with a groan. It had been a hard ride with Nick—he wanted increasingly more—until, exhausted, I drifted off to sleep, still inside him. The young man hadn't been able to get enough of the cock. That was the downsize of fucking an eighteen-year-old. They still had energy when you were quite done in. Last night it was like he was trying to pack a week's worth of experience into one session. He must have realized this wouldn't last—that he had to go back—to somewhere.

With a groan, I put a hand out to feel for him before opening my eyes. Touching nothing but rumpled sheets, though, I raised my lids and looked down the length of my body. I'd been having a wet dream and I saw that I was gripping my erection with one hand. Beyond that, though, and beyond the brass footboard of the bed, sitting in a chair against the opposite wall, naked, and with his cock in his hand, sat Luca—the street prostitute I'd gone looking for, without success, what? Two nights ago?

"Where's Nick?" I croaked.

"The cute little black-haired piece I found in your bed? He left when I arrived . . . and wouldn't leave. I offered to share. He wasn't interested. I wasn't really interested either, but he looked like stiff competition. I told him you were my sugar daddy and had promised not to fuck anyone but me. I told him it would get a little sticky when you woke up and both he and I were here."

"How did you get into the apartment?"

"You left the door unlocked. I heard you were looking for me. I came when I could. You had said I should come today to pose for you for another painting. You came looking for me earlier, though. You couldn't resist me?"

I hadn't left the door to the apartment unlocked. I never did. I'd have to remember to change the lock—and to engage the deadbolt. That's what I didn't always remember to do. I'd learned how to quickly change locks from earlier pickups. Eighteen-year-old boys can be so impetuous. They don't know how to respect space. You fuck them and they think they own you.

"I sold one of the paintings I did of you. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted you to celebrate with me."

"And when you couldn't find me, you decided to celebrate with another guy—a cute little trick the same age as me?"

"Yes."

"So, you owe me a celebration."

"Yes."

"You think that putting your cock in me will be me celebrating?"

"When it comes with money in your pocket, yes. You open our legs for money. I haven't heard you complain it's me paying you money for a fuck. Come here. Suck me. Lay down for me or off with you. I have work to do today."

"That's not the way it works with us. You know that. You've had a night of satisfying fucking already," he said.

"Yes, and I've had a night of quite satisfying fucking already. And, yes, the other hookup was both an angel and a devil. He didn't give me a rough time about taking my cock."

"Come here," he said. "Suck me off before we fuck. No, on your knees. Crawl to me."

I rolled off the bed onto the floor on all fours and crawled over to him. I knelt between his thighs and took his cock in my mouth. At his command, we changed positions, me sitting in the chair and him sitting on my shaft, facing away from me, his buttocks nestled in my lap. I embraced him from behind, worrying his nipples between my thumbs and index fingers, kissing him in the nape of his neck, and moving my hips. My shaft stroked him deep, slowly at first and then faster and faster as he moaned and writhed within my grasp, ejaculated into my stroking fist, and I creamed him deep in his soft core.

"Shit, you do it good," he moaned.

"So, you'll let me do you for free?"

"That wouldn't be ethical," he shot back.

"Yeah, didn't think so."

"Am I better than that little piece who was just here?"

"I didn't pay him. And I don't crawl for him either." And that closed that conversation.

As I was fixing our breakfast, Luca flipped on the TV in the corner recess of the kitchen cabinet. I didn't like that blaring while I was fixing a meal and I growled for him to turn it off, which he did, but not before an image of Nick popped up on the screen.

". . . eighteen-year-old music prodigy, Conte Nicolo della Mirandola, has been missing for two days and is feared . . ." The screen went dead.

"Hey, that's him. The guy I kicked out of your apartment this morning."

"You think so, Luca?" I said. I wanted him to say "no," but I too knew that was my Nick who had just flashed across the monitor. "Turn it back on. What's a 'conte'?"

"That's a nobility title here—an old one," Luca said. "I think it's 'count' in English."

"Terrific."

"So, your little piece for last night is a count." Luca laughed.

"Not that I knew," I said.

The photo had changed to a reporter holding a microphone in front of a tall, thin, effete-looking gentleman. ". . . Milan Symphony Orchestra conductor, Maestro Giovanni Lagosa, says young Nicolo, an orphaned nobleman who has been made a ward of the symphony organization and named just two days ago—the day he disappeared—as the lead violin soloist for the symphony's next performance, wasn't missed until dinnertime two nights ago, on Monday."