Inspirations

As I lay there, I looked out of the window to see that a man, naked, was standing at a window in the next building over. He had been watching the two fishermen fuck me. He had his cock in on hand, a cigarette in the other, and was stroking himself. Yet more inspiration of a story I thought. He nodded his head in a "You can come over here" gesture, and I nodded back. Another encounter and story for later.

The two fishermen returned to the bed, climbed up on it together, gathered up my body, and, sandwiching me between them. Realizing what they were going to do, I struggled a bit, but they just laughed and did it anyway. I settled down to panting hard and moaning low and letting them do what they wanted.

Each thrust up inside me, sharing my channel, and fucking me in a double. Crying out "Yes, yes, you big brutes. Fuck me hard!" I writhed between them, taking both cocks together, hard.

The man in the window in the other building, shot his load, but remained to watch me be double fucked. The fishermen showered together as I lay, moaning and panting, watching the man in the window of the other building watching me, and then then dressed, chatting amicably with each other--saying nothing to me--and left my flat without so much as a thank you. One of them did, though, retrieve my clothes off the staircase, toss them into the flat and close the door.

In the story I wrote from the inspiration of this encounter, I would write that I hobbled out to the balcony, maintaining eye contact with the man in the window of the other building, and gestured for him to come across. In the story, he would come across and fuck me on the bed. That's not what happened in real life. I can't even say there really was a man in the window. I may have fantasized that.

The two fishermen were real, though. Being doubled was gloriously real.

When I had recuperated, later in the afternoon, I dressed again and went down to the harbor and sat on the wall. This time I attracted the attention of a middle-aged, rather ugly, but fit man coming off the yacht basin piers. He said his name was Giorgio. He expensively dressed in nautical whites. He stopped and looked at me, making eye contact, nonverbally checking on whether I knew what it meant to be sitting on that wall. When he was assured, he took a wallet out and started fanning out high-denomination euro notes.

His yacht was not large, but it was sleek and beautiful and the lounge bed in the fantail accommodated us well when he had sailed us out to off the coast where, lying first on my back and then positioned on all fours, I could enjoy the view of the mountainside village from off shore, while the old man, large of cock, masterful in the fuck, covered and pounded me through the afternoon.

When I finally wrote up the story inspired by the men from the sea, the fishermen would still do me in a double, but, in addition to the version of them following me up to my flat, they would take me out to sea on their fishing boat and have their way with me at length and forcefully. I would be their willing slave and they my commanding masters.

* * * *

His name was Paulo. He was the guitarist from the previous night at the tavern terrace where Salvatore had picked me up. I went there for dinner again that evening to eat, drink, and watch the sun sitting in a riot of color over the Ligurian Sea. The evening before he had made eyes for me and he did so tonight, as well, a waiter telling me that one of the ballads the man played was dedicated to me. He was tall and wiry, dark and sexy. He was more beautiful than handsome, but he was intriguing and interesting to watch and think about. I watched his long, sensual fingers expertly working his guitar and I imagined what those fingers could do on my body. After playing the ballad, the sensuous fingers came off the keyboard and his index finger was pointing at me. We both knew that he was claiming me; we both knew I would succumb to him.

Brandon had advised me to write with variety. That meant that sometimes I needed to write from the perspective of the top--not only the bottom. Paulo struck me as perhaps a bottom rather than a top, in which case all we could do was flirt.

I could use this situation for inspiration, though, and I did. As he played and I drank and ate and took in the rich display of the falling of day, I conjured up a story of when Paulo went on break, I followed him back into the dark passage at the rear of the restaurant, and stopped him there. I turned him, back him to the wall, and possessed his lips with mine, going into a deep kiss that he responded to. I did not speak Italian and he did not speak English. We both, however, spoke the language of fuck. We both fumbled around with the shirts of the other, shedding them, and then with the belts and flies. We released each other, and, as we kissed, he combined our hands to encircle our engorging cocks together and frotted each of us together to full erection.

Holding him against the wall, I grasped his buttocks cheeks and raised his body to me. He hooked his knees on my hips, cried out as I penetrated him, swift and deep, and I fucked him there against the wall.

The reality was that Paulo wasn't a bottom. He was a top. At the end of his session at the tavern, he climbed to hill to my flat with me, stretched out beside me on the bed, my buttocks nestled into his groin, and he played my body with his sensuous fingers as well as he strummed his guitar. He fucked me in a side split--then later with me on my belly and him riding my ass like a jockey and even later in a missionary. He didn't leave until day was dawning.

But the inspiration was of the narrator fucking the musician in the dark corridor at the rear of the tavern, and that was how I would write it up.

* * * *

I was so steeped in story inspiration and notes that I remained in my flat, furiously drafting away, ever expending time and effort on polishing the stories for the next two days, only dashing out for food. Well, to be honest, I did return to the tavern overlooking the sea on the second night, bring Paulo, the guitarist, home with me, and lay with and under him through the night. He sensed I was preoccupied with writing, even though in sexual need, and the fucking was slow and sensual, relieved by long periods of cuddling and dozing.

Word was getting out in the village of what I wanted from a man--what I would do for a man. When I opened the door to let Paulo out the next morning, there stood Alonzo, of the pale blue eyes, waiting his turn--and after him, Lorenzo, of the lizard tattoo and bent cock. Carlos, fifty-five if a day, was the most vigorous and taxing of them all, breeding me again and again as if there was no tomorrow for either of us. All of them beautiful, accomplished men, no matter what their age. I no longer had to dress as a whore and sit on a wall at the harbor to announcement my availability. I wasted a whole day on my back on my bed, legs spread and open, taking men's cocks, but the inspiration for writing of men on top of me, fucking me, flowed unabated.

I was building quite a portfolio of stories to be polished, both "Travels on the Italian Coast" mainstream ones to fulfill the requirements of my sabbatical and to be critiqued in Brandon James's creative writing class as well as the steamy ones for Brandon's personal collection. Brandon had said, though, that there were places, on the Internet and at Internet distributors where the gay male stories could be published, so they would be for more than my arousal and Brandon's enjoyment.

On the fourth morning, having been in this village for six days now and soon to be picked up by someone, an Algerian, I was told, to drive on for a stay and exploration of Rome, I had drafted all of the stories I'd been inspired to write here and ventured out again to sit the wall down in the harbor and, I hoped, pick up a man and new inspiration for stories.

The man who picked me up was a new man--it was Giorgio, the gnarled old rich man with the impossibly big cock who had taken me out on his small yacht and fucked the hell out of me. He stood there in front of me, having come down through one of the village narrow streets. When I saw him, I saw that he was talking to Carlos, the master cocksman, and I realized that they networked their assignations in this town. Giorgio was carrying a hamper and obviously, in his pristine yachting whites, was planning on going out in his boat again. I was dressed as before, with just a change of color from red to blue--a blue stringer T-shirt, showing off my cut torso; a blue thong, under white mesh shorts; and open-toed sandals.

"You're still here," Giorgio said, standing in front of me and grinning. "I was about to go to a special island today. Now I know why I packed food and drink for two. Will you go with me and let me spend the day enjoying you on a deserted island?"

"A special desert island?" I asked, intrigued. Remembering the power of his cock and the openness of his pocketbook despite his age and lack of beauty, I was otherwise willing. He named a price, which was more than generous for a day's frolic.

"It's not much more than a grove of trees surrounded by a circle of sand. No one lives there. I am one of few who goes there. It offers privacy and an opportunity to be free in thought and action."

"Free in thought?" I asked. It sounded ideal for coming up for inspiration for stories.

"Yes--in the thought of how many ways I can use your young body. And action--in how well I can fulfill my thoughts. I enjoyed your body on the boat the other day. It was a lovely sonata. You are a beautiful, yielding young man. And you are a slut for it, which an old man like me appreciates. The isolated island, however, with just the two of us will allow opportunity for a symphony of sexual exploration and completion. If you go with me, I will use you totally. We will be alone on the island. I have my pills with me and I will be hard all day. I will take you everywhere sexually. You strike me as a young man who is exploring it all on your travels. Go with me to the island and experience it all."

"You are quite direct and sure of yourself," I said.

"And you are without shame. Half of the village has had you. You have opened your legs to any man who wanted to fuck you. I have had you and will have you again. Come, get into my boat. I will fuck you as we go out to the island."

He had no idea how completely this played to my quest for story inspiration.

"Yes, of course," I said, rising from the wall, looking beyond the gaunt ugliness of his body and remembering the surprising strength of him and his extraordinary cock as well as the glint in his eyes that I'd observed while he was fucking me on the boat that hinted that there was so much more he wanted to do with my body--and would be capable of doing if I let him--and even if I didn't let him if he could get me into position, like on a small deserted island, to take what he wanted. I shuddered from anticipation.

He smiled and extended the hand not holding the hamper. "Come, let us go to the boat and out to the special island. Let me show you what an older man with vast experience can do with a young man's body. You will come for me again and again. We will have no need to talk. I will ravish you. I am paying you a fortune and you will earn every bit of it."

* * * *

I was pressed in the sand on my back, naked--naked the whole day as Giorgio had relentlessly tracked me down as we moved around the perimeter beach of the small island, caught me, and fucked me. As he promised, he was hard all day, putting it in me whenever I turned around. I received him willingly each time, relaxing, opening, stretching to his demand, moving with his thrusts, taking him deep, clutching at him, and crying out my need and satisfaction. He had called me a slut, and he had called me correctly. He didn't come each time, but often enough for me to marvel that a man of his age could recharge that often.

Giorgio had brought a collection of restraints and toys onto the island and methodically had used them all in a progressively more demanding taking. The old man was hung and he had taken his pills on the yacht before we reached the island. He was able to maintain a magnificent erection. He also had proven that he could breed me--and did--every half hour or so. He was right--we didn't talk; we fucked.

He was stronger than I was. He was quicker than I was. He caught and manipulated me at will. I moaned and groaned and sighed and sobbed for him as he used my body totally.

I was trussed up, my legs drawn up into my chest by strong roping that held my arms captive, wrists tied to ankles, and the rope going around my neck to hold me drawn into myself and my thighs spread, giving Giorgio's hand full access to my ass. His fist was inside me up to the wrist, and he was slow fucking me with the hand. He was leaned over me, sucking on my cock, teasing yet another ejaculation out of me. I was panting heavily and whimpering my surrender. I'd already been through the resistance, crying out, and sobbing phases. It was glorious suffering. I wanted it to stop. I didn't want it to stop.

He took his mouth off my cock, to counsel yet again, "Relax. Take it. You're doing beautifully. Relaxing and giving yourself totally to me will allow me to go deeper."

Go deeper? I was close to hyperventilating. Did I want him to go deeper? Did it matter what I wanted? Regardless, I did relax more. I came for him, and, with a grunt of pleasure, he pulled his fist out, moved between my trussed up thighs, mounted me with that monster cock of his, penetrated, and once again began the dance of the anal fuck.

Relaxing into this position and having come again myself, my mind started to wander--inspiration flowing in to create a story from this--to project beyond this to an even more fantastic story.

Going back in time and to the Caribbean. The time of pirates and small, remote islands like this. A battle between the merchant ship that I was a young sailor on and pirates. Both of us losing the battle, both of our ships going down. Clothes in tatters, I managed--just me; none of my mates--to swim to a small, deserted island.

The pirates were luckier. Some were already on the island to pull me, totally naked as I came out of the surf, onto the island, dragging me up on the sand. Other pirates came out of the sea behind me.

They trussed me up on the sand there, just as Giorgio has done, and one after the other--and occasionally two together--fucking me and using my body as they liked. Later, when they had hung me between two trees at the center of the island, with the edge of the island in sight from all angles, they whipped and fucked me in turn. My arms and legs were stretched out between the trees in spread-eagled position.

As they had their gang banging way with me, sending me to the heights of both suffering and sexual passion, I could see the sails of another vessel approaching.

Saviors or more devils? I would leave that for later, when I was drafting the story which it would be. Or perhaps I'd leave it to reader choice.

When I came out of my reverie, it was to see that Giorgio was motioning to the sailors who had brought us out to the island--his three-man yacht crew. They had remained on the yacht while we had cavorted on the island. But now Giorgio was giving them their turn. He gestured for them to approach and then he watched, as a voyeur, while the three of them, like the Caribbean pirates of my reverie, shared me, separately and together, on the beach, two in one hole and the third in the other.

* * * *

I lay there on my bed the early morning of that last night in the village, listening to Paulo taking a shower--his last shower here. I already was mostly packed, with my suitcase and carryon sitting by the door and what I would be wearing for the drive to Rome draped over a chair. An Algerian named Munir was supposed to come from me soon, sent by the gay-friendly travel agency to drive me on to Rome to a small vacation flat and to guide me in Rome on my quest for gathering and writing up story inspirations.

Paulo and I had fucked and slept and cuddled on my bed for our last night together. I left a light dimly burning so that the man at the window in the building across the street from my building could watch us languidly fuck. I knew he'd be at the window, and he was. It gave me pleasure to know he was watching us do it--especially as lovingly that we were doing it. I helped give me inspiration, the knowledge that he probably was the only man in this village who wanted to fuck me who had only done so in one of my stories.

This thought moved me as did the bittersweet sensation of having entered a casual short affair with a man I melded to so well as I did with the tavern guitarist Paulo, with both of us knowing the coupling was casual and short lived--and in spite of that having become a deeper, more meaningful relationship, at least for me. I would work to get that into a story or two.

The dawn was creeping in when Paulo had showered dressed and, at the door, had stopped and turned and given me a wistful look before leaving my life forever. Only then did I rise myself, shower, dress, and take a cup of coffee out to the balcony to watch the new day steal into the picturesque harbor town again.

The man across the street, wearing only sleeping shorts, returned to his window and gazed over to me. He ran his hands over his muscular, tight torso and down into his shorts, wear I could see he was working on his cock. I put my coffee cup to the side, unbuckled and flared my trousers, and let those and my briefs drop to the floor of the balcony.

Yet another opportunity to gather inspiration for a voyeur story.

The man was maybe in his late thirties. He was darkly handsome and had a great body. His sleeping shorts slipped to the floor and he leaned into his window, pressing his forehead and the palm of one hand to the glass. His eyes were focused on the half-hard cock projecting from my now-exposed groin. He was in full erection. We both held and stroked off our cocks, our gazes locked on each other across the span of the narrow stone-lined street below us. Light filtered in from reflection of the rising son on the Mediterranean Sea below.

We came almost simultaneously, he against the glass of his window and me onto the street below the balcony.

As I came, I heard the honk of a car horn from below. I looked down over the railing of the balcony to see that a small Mercedes SUV had negotiated its way up the steep, narrow street below and stopped in front of my flat. A beefy, muscular, dark-skinned man had gotten out of the car and was looking up at the balcony. I had no idea how long he had been there--it quite evidently was Munir, the gay-friendly travel agency guide who had been sent to take me to Rome to guide me there and provide who knows what other services--but I'm sure he had been there long enough to have satisfied himself on my sexual interests and willingness.

Munir was grinning up at me. I could already tell that this trip to Rome would be very satisfying and would be the inspiration for many stories for the portfolios I was building.

With a contented sigh, I pulled my briefs and trousers up, zipped up, and went back into the flat to pick up my luggage and to descend to new, Algerian-flavored, summer of Italian-inspiration adventures with Munir.

Before I could leave the flat, I answered the knock of the door, opening it to the handsome, sensual Arab, Munir, who embraced me, took me to the floor under him in the flat's living room in front of the open door, expertly readjusted our clothing to his need, strongly entered me with a thick erection, and fucked me to the realization that my visit to Rome would be quite satisfying indeed.