Keeping Up Appearances

"Per favore, questo posto è gratuito. Per favore, siediti. Mi dispiace, capisci l'italiano?--Please, this seat is free. Please sit. I'm sorry, do you not understand Italian?" And then she added in accented but quite good English, "Are you American? Can you only speak English?" She raised an arm and snapped her fingers. A waiter appeared immediately, fawning over her. "Questo giovane sembra assetato. Forse una birra per lui." Nodding, the waiter ran off to fetch an iced beer.

"Sorry, I am not being too forward, I hope, but you look very thirsty. I've ordered a beer for you. Please, take this chair." As the young man sat down and wasn't looking at her, the woman unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and hiked her skirt up to where her shapely calves were exposed. She was wearing sheer hose and medium-height heels. Her blouse was sheer and complemented her tweed skirt perfectly. She was both a smart and expensive dresser, and her figure, on the voluptuous side, was shown off to best advantage.

The young sailor spoke. "Parlo un po' di italiano. La mia famiglia vive negli Stati Uniti, ma entrambi i miei genitori sono nati in Italia--I speak a little Italian. My family lives in the United States, but both of my parents were born in Italy." She gave the young sailor an encouraging smile, and he continued. "Non desidero intromettermi. Spero che tu non aspettassi qualcuno--I don't wish to intrude. I hope you weren't expecting someone."

"Your Italian is excellent," the woman answered, and the conversation then proceeded in Italian. "You are quite welcome. I wasn't expecting anyone. You look like an American sailor, though. A surprise to see here. A pleasant surprise I must say." She turned on a coquettish look for the last sentence.

"I was recently assigned to the U.S. Naval air facility in Naples. We were being bused up into the mountains near here to visit some wineries and I got left behind at a rest stop. I figured if I kept walking up into the mountains, I'd find my bus at some winery."

The woman laughed, saying nothing of the effort that would entail, as the young man did look fit enough to climb a mountain. "There are many wineries up on Monte Massico, and it's a long walk from here. My family owns one of the wineries."

The sailor's beer had arrived and he practically drained it dry at one go to slacken his thirst. The woman laughed a tinkly laugh, snapped her fingers again, the attentive waiter quickly appeared, and she ordered another beer for the young man.

"Your family owns a winery here?" he asked.

"Yes. The Villa Tore winery. It's one of the oldest on the mountain. I'm sure your bus was going there. I'm the Contessa di Ghiberti of Tore. My husband's family, the Ghibertis, have been prominent in the region for years. But you can call me Maria."

"A countess, and you're married," the sailor said. He appeared appreciably in awe.

"Yes, but the count is old. He's probably off visiting his mistress now. This is Italy. But it's modern Italy. If the rooster does as he pleases in the hen house, it is understood that the hens would have their fun as well." Maria had reached over and touched the young man's forearm, which had been resting on the small café table that separated them. The table was small enough that their knees touched. He didn't pull his arm away, so she readjusted her knees so that his were pressed between them. He didn't pull away from this either.

"Do you have a name too?" she asked, giving him a dreamy look.

"Yes. As I said, my family's heritage is Italian. They named me Antonio. My friends call me Tony, though."

"Well, Tony, I was about to go home--up to the Villa Tore winery on Monte Massico. It is a very long, dusty walk from here, I can assure you. I would be happy to drive you up there. My car is just over there. You could try out our wines and if your bus didn't show up, I would be happy to drive you around to the other wineries until we find it."

"I would hate to use your time for that," Tony said.

"I have time to be used," the countess answered, giving the young man a meaningful look. "My car is just over there," she repeated, gesturing to across the square.

Tony looked across the square and his eyes opened very large. "That's a new Maserati," he said.

"Yes, would you like to take me for a ride?"

"Sweet," he responded.

In her bedroom in the castle-like villa on the mountainside above the Villa Tore Winery, Tony unbuckled himself, but Maria stopped him, wanting to do that herself and, especially, to unbutton those eight buttons on the fly flap of his tight Navy whites. She was sitting at the foot of her bed, her blouse off and her ample breasts hanging free. Her tweed skirt was gathered up to her waist. Her sheer stockings were held up by a garter belt. Tony had already discovered she wasn't wearing panties and had knelt between her legs, feasting on her labia and clit while his hands weighed and squeezed her breasts.

She made him stand between her spread thighs while she unbuckled and unbuttoned his trousers--his jumper had already come off. He was nearly twenty years her junior, but he was an Apollo and she was a voluptuous, experience woman in high need. She positioned his cock between her pendulous breasts and squeezed them against him there as he quickly hardened up. Then, grasping the orbs of his buttocks and pulling him in to her, she opened her mouth over his thick, long cock, and gave him head until he couldn't take it anymore.

Grasping her throat with one hand, Tony lowered Maria's back onto the bed. With the other hand, he unclipped her stockings, one after the other, and slowly drew them off her legs, running his hand up the inside of her thighs when he'd done so, causing her to shudder--and then to moan deeply as his fingers found and spread her folds. He hovered over her, lowering his chest onto hers and capturing her lips with his.

She struggled and writhed a bit as he positioned his cock head between his spreading fingers, but he maintained possession of her mouth as he slowly penetrated. She arched her back, dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades, jerked her mouth from his, and cried out, "Sì! Sì! Sei fottutamente grosso--Yes! Yes! You are fucking big!" and, hugging his hips with her knees, settled down in the rhythm of the fuck.

After fucking her for several minutes in the cunt, he turned her. She cried out, "Oh merda. Sei un ragazzo cattivo!--Oh shit. You naughty boy!" and then gasped and huffed as he drove his shaft up her anal canal and fucked her there as well.

Within minutes, the door to the room was thrown open, and a large man, older than Tony but younger than Maria and all muscle burst into the room. If this was the husband, there was nothing old about him. He grabbed Tony and the two men rolled to the carpet below the bed. Maria scrambled up onto the bed and crawled to a night stand. She pulled a revolver out of the nightstand drawer and scrambled back to the foot of the bed. The two men were grappling on the floor.

Maria raised the revolver, pulled the trigger, and two shots rang out. The intruder was on top of Tony--until the shots were fired. Then he fell off to the side. Tony looked up, his eyes wide in fear. Maria was pointing the gun at him.

The word "Cut" boomed out from the corner of the room. "That was great, Luc and Claudia," the Italian film director, Roberto Tufini, called out. "That scene was just great this time. The filming down in the village square as well as the scene up here."

The sex had, indeed, been arousing--and there had been nothing fake about it. Roberto Tufini was known for the realism of his movies' sex scenes. The Italians liked their movies explicit. The anal fuck had not been in the script, but Claudia had managed it beautifully. It was obvious that she had been caught by surprise, and initially fought it. But once he was deeply saddled, she had settled down to it and had swayed with the rhythm of the fuck, as mounted on her as a dog would be, Tony grasped and manipulated her breasts as he pumped her to a buried ejaculation.

The three actors moved away from the bed, the actor playing the husband ushered off by a nurse to check for damage from the scuffle, and assistants handing robes to Luc and Claudia.

"Come over into another room with me, Luc," Tufini said. "We'll go over some notes for the scenes that are just yours that we'll film tomorrow." He turned to Claudia. "The driver will take you back to the hotel now. That scene was just great, sweetie. You won't be needed for tomorrow. Keep the driver. He can take you into Naples tomorrow. Maybe you'll find a dress you'd like to be married in--something that will photograph well by all of the paparazzi we'll let know you and Luc are taking the impromptu dive into matrimony."

When Tufini and Luc went into the other room and Tufini locked the door behind them, Luc found out what was so urgent for them to discuss.

"That last scene really did it for me, Luc." The young man could see that. Tufini had unzipped himself and pulled his shaft out. He was in full erection. The director put his free hand on Luc's shoulder and the young man got what the stage direction was. He went down on his knees, took Tufini's cock in his mouth, and gave him head.

"Now, now! Fuck me now," Tufini cried out as he shuddered and came. Luc turned him over, holding his body under him, both still standing, and pushed his trousers and briefs to the floor. Tufini cried out a, "Yes, yes, like a dog. Like you did Claudia!" and then gasped and huffed, as Luc drove his shaft up the man's anal canal and fucked him like a dog.

* * * *

The handsome, trim, well-dressed, patrician-looking man, perhaps, aided by the graying at his temples, looking more distinguished in his fifties than he did in his twenties, crossed the small Italian village square, toward the café, with its three small tables under an awning. All of the tables were occupied, and the man decided to keep tapping his gold-headed cane along the cobblestones and continue on past the square to another café that he didn't like as much as he did this one. As he approached the preferred café, though, the young man at one of the tables, incongruously dressed as an American Navy sailor, smiled at him--a sultry, darked-haired, tanned, all-American boy smile--and the man's steps faltered.

The form-fitting sailor costume the young man was wearing so very well--out of place in this small village between the Tyrrhenian Sea and the mountains on the Italian coast north of Naples--was one Italians would recognize as that of an old-time American sailor rather than current issue. The white, bell-bottomed trousers were tight across the pelvis and thighs and had a button flap for a fly. The trousers were topped by a white jumper, with a black scarf tie. To a man like the one now standing in front of him, the combination of a smiling young man, who couldn't be over nineteen, and his sailor uniform, was sexy and arousing.

"Excuse me, young man," the man said in his well-practiced English. "Is this seat taken?"

"No, it isn't," the young man answered with that glowing smile. "Please, please do join me."

"I'm sorry, but I was arrested by your visage," the patrician Italian man said. "We rarely see American Navy sailors in our little village. You are an American, are you not?"

"Yes, I'm American," the young man said. "I've recently arrived at the U.S. Naval air facility in Naples, and I was with a group being taken to the wineries up in the Massico mountains, but I was left behind at a rest stop. I have stopped here to regroup and try to figure out how to get back to Naples."

The man raised his arm and snapped his fingers and immediately a waiter appeared. "Sì, conte, cosa posso servirvi?" he said and the man asked for wine. The waiter bowed low and hurried off.

"He called you count," the young man said, with surprise.

"You understand Italian?" the man asked, showing surprise himself and taking a deeper assessing look at the young sailor that the sailor couldn't help but notice showed a sexual interest. The sailor's answering look returned that interest, and the two relaxed into their chairs. The table between them was small. Their knees already had been touching, but now the young man opened his stance, and the count moved his knees between the sailor's. The sailor did not change his stance. The count then lowered the gold knob of his cane below the table top and touched the young man's ankle, pushing the flared hem of his trousers up. The sailor didn't withdraw from this touch either, and as they talked, the knob of the cane moved farther up the sailor's bare leg.

"And, alas, I am a count, yes. The long version is that I'm the seventh Conte di Ghiberti of Tore. But you can just call me Salvitore, if you like--Sal, if we get on well."

"My, that sounds very impressive and rich," the sailor said, his eyes dancing in the sunlight. The young man widened his stance and moved his chair a bit closer to the table, leaning in more toward the count.

"Yes, I'm afraid that is my burden," Count Salvitore responded. "And I own and live at one of those wineries your group is visiting up on the slopes of Monte Massico, I'm sure. The Villa Tore Winery." The knob of the cane came out from beneath the hem of the sailor's trouser and moved between his legs, rubbing on the inner side of one of the young man's thighs, high up. Once again, the sailor didn't retreat. Instead, he gave the count a dreamy smile.

"And your name, if I might ask?" The count obviously didn't want the conversation to end, and his experimentation with how well his seduction of the sultry young sailor could be was being met with favorable results.

"My family's heritage is Italian. They named me Antonio. My friends call me Tony, though."

The rubbing of the cane knob had moved up to the young sailor's crotch and was following the line of his engorged shaft within the tight material. There wasn't much in question on what was transpiring here. Tony had done nothing to impede the exploration.

"Well, Tony, I was about to go home--up to the Villa Tore winery on Monte Massico. It is a very long, dusty walk from here either to find your tour bus up there or to return to Naples, I can assure you. I would be happy to drive you up to the mountain. My car is just over there. You could try out our wines and if your bus didn't show up, I would be happy to drive you around to the other wineries until we find it."

Tony looked across the square and his eyes opened very large. "That's a Lamborghini Murcielago," he said.

"Yes, would you like to take me for a ride?"

"Sweet," Tony responded, rolling his hips up in his seat, and reaching down with a hand to grasp the knob of the cane and move it down under his ball sac to touch his hole through the material of the white trousers.

Count Salvitore smiled and said, "Are you going to give yourself to me, young man?" As he said this, he placed a wad of bills on the top of the table and nudged it in Tony's direction.

"Yes, if you like--if you'll give me a ride in your Lamborghini," Tony answered, sliding the bills off the table and into his pocket.

As they approached the vehicle, Tony became like a small child, gleefully praising the Lamborghini Murcielago, the fastest production car in existence. Count Salvitore showed him just how fast it could go as they wound their way up toward Monte Massico. The hillsides were covered with regular rows of cascading vines, heavy with luscious grapes, aching to be plucked. The count was showing that he felt young again, having easily seduced a handsome young American sailor. He took the familiar twisting road up into the hills with a speed that delighted the young American, who pulled his jumper off, showing a young, smooth, tanned, lightly muscular torso. The young man twisted toward the count, rubbed the man's slowly hardening cock through his silky trousers, and, then, uncovered it and got it unbelievably hard as the car flew along. If the count hadn't been such a skillful driver, and the road had not been so familiar, his trembling from what the sailor was doing, leaning over now and taking the shaft in his mouth, surely would have put them tumbling down onto the rock-enclosed terraces cascading down to the sea.

As it was, when the count told Tony they were now on Ghiberti land, the young sailor urged the count, with a husky voice, to pull off into one of the side access roads. The count did so, pulling off to between rows of grapes and bringing the car to a stop. Tony urged Salvitore over into the passenger seat, where, pulling his trousers off, the sailor saddled himself on the count's cock and they fucked.

The count's winemaker, Luigi, a husky, muscular, man of forty, so thuggish looking that he would have arousal appeal to a certain adventuresome young man such as Tony was, appeared at the head of the row of grape vines and saw the Lamborghini rocking on its shocks as Tony sat in the count's lap, facing him, and bounced up and down on the man's shaft.

Luigi did not turn away. He positioned himself to where he could watch the action and not be seen by the men in the car. He freed his own cock and stroked himself off while he watched the sailor fuck himself on the aristocrat's shaft. A camera crew was positioned to be able to go from the car to the Luigi in it's film coverage.

The scene shifted to the count's bedroom at the Villa Tore. Tony quickly, masterfully, and completely took control as soon as the heavy oaken door had shut behind them and the struggle for dominance was under way. His eyes quickly traveled around the large room, drinking in the wealth of the centuries, stopping briefly at a flattering half-finished oil painting of the count on an easel beside a fireplace, and focusing on the huge four-poster bed beside two full-length glass doors leading to a balcony and looking down through heavily fruited terraces of grape vines to the near-distant Tyrrhenian Sea. It was close to dusk in a musk-heavy late September, and the waning rays of the sun were picking out and making luminescent the white and ocher plastered walls and terra-cotta roof tiles of the buildings stepping down from the hilltop prominence to the turquoise Mediterranean waters below.

Tony tore at the count's clothes, telling him how fit he was for his age, saying all of the right things to keep Salvitore in need of his power and youthful attention. When he had the count undressed, Tony sat the older man down on the end of the bed, stepped back, and slowly disrobed, showing the count a perfectly formed, trim, but well-muscled, horse-hung-equipped body, with low-hanging, egg-sized balls poking out of a profusion of curly, black pubic hair. His butt cheeks were bulbous, firm but round as melons.

Having given the count a full picture, Tony moved right into Salvitore. He pushed his cock between the older man's lips and started a quickening rhythm, forcing the count initially to gag from the immediacy and unfamiliarity of the act. The count wasn't used to giving up control. In turn, he cupped the sailor's butt cheeks with his hands and very soon had him moaning and sighing his delight as well. Slowly, the count gained the control, taking his mouth off Tony's cock and turning him until his back went down on the bed, The count knelt on the floor between the young man's thighs and took possession of Tony's shaft again with his mouth. His hands were establishing control. They roamed the younger man's body, finding all of those mounds and crevices that made the sailor moan and give over control.

Salvitore picked up his cane from the floor at the foot of the bed, and while he hovered over Tony's shimmering body, he moved the gold knob to Tony's ass. The young man grunted and he arched his back as the count penetrated with the knob of the cane and fucked the young man with it. Extracted the cane, the count climbed up onto Tony's prone body, saddled his chest, and forced his cock down into the sailor's mouth and throat like a piledriver, trying to get it all inside the young man's mouth. Tony sputtered and pulled away long enough to beg the count to slow down, but the dominate man was relentless in his attack.