The Substitute Travel Companion

He came over and stood next to the lounge bed. "You are with the old Italian, aren't you?" he said.

"Yes, we're traveling together," I answered, almost chuckling that Lorenzo had been called old. But, of course, in relation to the two of us--Fontel, who probably was in his early thirties, and me--Lorenzo was old.

"More than that, I've seen," the black man said. "I see that he fucks you. And that he is cruel when he fucks you. Why do you let him do that?"

"That's just the way it is," I said.

"Is it because he pays you? I think he is a rich man. He certainly is an arrogant man. Are you a rent-boy? Is he paying you enough for you to take what you do from him?"

What could I say? Carbone had been supporting me totally during this trip. I was being paid well, taking everything into consideration. "Yes, I guess you could say I am a rent-boy," I answered, "but I'm here to help a friend of mine get a good business deal with Carbone. That just sort of evolved into this. He hasn't been as cruel as he was last night before. It hasn't been like that before."

"But I think you like it a little cruel," Fontel said. "I think you were liking it a bit last night."

There wasn't much I could say about that either. That I had--after I had opened enough to accommodate his hand--taken some pleasure in the fist fuck was undeniable and had been bothering me all day thus far.

"I would not be as cruel," Fontel said. "I would be a lover."

He went back into the house then, but he didn't stay long. When he came back out, he was holding four fifty-dollar-bills in his hand. He also had moved the waistband of his Speedo under his balls, and the size--both the length and the thickness of his cock, the size far outstripping the proportion of the rest of his body--was projecting out in erection. He was cut. The bulb was an angry purple. The shaft was jet black, blacker than the tone of the rest of his body.

"I don't know much about rent-boys," he said. "Is this enough?"

"Yes, Fontel," I said, "that is enough." I didn't want to embarrass either one of us by dwelling on payment more or longer. He cupped my head in his hands and pulled me to him as he jutted his pelvis toward me. I opened my mouth and slid my lips down the sides of his shaft as far as I could take him in without gagging. I gave him head and he stood there, moaning, and rocking back and forth, fucking my throat.

He fucked me first there on the lounge bed, kneeling between my parted and raised thighs, holding my legs spread with his fists on my ankles. He fucked me deep, hovering over me, his face not far above me, drinking in every nuance of my pleasure at having him deep inside me, stretching me, working me hard and, eventually, breeding me, filling me, making me groan and moan--and sigh and purr.

Eventually, he picked me up from the lounge bed, and, showing me how strong he was, carried me in his arms through the house and up to the apartment above the garage, where he fucked me again... and again... and again.

No, two hundred dollars was not enough for a rent-boy to be fucked that much by a john. Yes, two hundred dollars was more than enough for pleasure of being so totally fucked by Fontel Wallace. He was just the lover I needed at that moment. I'd never been fucked by a black man before. I'd never been fucked by a cock that big--and commanding before.

* * * *

That night Lorenzo beat me while he was fucking me. He'd only tied my wrists together. We'd gone up to the second level of the house for the first time, to a glass-wall room overlooking the lake and found that the owner had installed his own sex playroom up there. There not only was a bed with restraints, but there were other sex torture apparatuses as well. It had turned Lorenzo on. He'd found another dildo the shape and size of a horse's cock--even larger than what Fontel was swinging, and he was using it on me on the bed in preparation for trying out some of the other equipment.

I was scared and not ready for this escalation. I cried out when, hovering over me, with me on my back on the bed, he was working the horse's cock inside me. I raised up into a sitting position to counter him, and he slapped me, hard, across the face, first one way and then the other. I fell back on the bed, but I tried rising again and he punched me in the eye. Gasping, I feel back on the bed, collapsing under him--surrendering. He mounted and fucked me hard and deep then. I gave in to him totally, having a flash of "He is forcing me" go through my brain and inexplicably being joined was a flash of pleasure at being used so. Still, though I lay open and vulnerable and giving him all, he slapped me again as he fucked me, and he took my throat in his hands and choked and released, chocked and released, controlling my breathing, my gasping. And somehow he was raising me up to the clouds. It very likely was the loss of oxygen, but I was aroused at new heights, dancing on the clouds.

Fontel appeared in the doorway, no doubt drawn by my cry. His fists were bunched and it appeared that he was ready to pounce on Lorenzo from behind the Italian. I waved him away, though, not wanting this to get any more violent than it was. He disappeared.

Lorenzo brought me to an ejaculation in the missionary position and then he pulled me up from the bed, dragged me over to a X-frame, and strung me up there, facing the frame. He found a hand whip and whipped me--not enough to break skin but enough to redden me up and to make me gasp and groan. And then he mounted me again from the rear, and finished his fuck in a doggy position.

He carried me to his bedroom and embraced me there, cooing to me the rest of the night, satiated in his "Boléro" style, mild-to-wild fuck technique, no doubt believing I had enjoyed the session as much as he did. What was worrying me as I lay there in his embrace, moaning and whimpering--and nursing a black eye--was that I, in fact, had danced on the clouds in passion from his rough fuck.

The next day Fontel came to me in the bedroom, where I was still moaning in bed and after Lorenzo had driven off in the Jaguar.

"He's going to kill you," he said. "You have to get out of here."

"I can't, I said. He's hidden my clothes and I don't have a ticket to get back to New York."

"I know where your clothes are," he said. "And I'll bet you have some money--you have two hundred from me. I'll give you more, if that's what you need. I have a car here. I'll drive you to the airport. You need to get out of here."

So, that's what I did--but I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I pointed out that if he bought my body again for another two hundred, I'd have enough for a plane ticket back to New York--and that he carried me up to his apartment and after attending to my eye and the welts on my back and buttocks, fucked me to heaven.

When Lorenzo stopped to see Fed in New York on his way back to Italy and found me in Fed's office, he said nothing about his sexual demands of me on the trip or that I had disappeared. Somehow, I knew he wouldn't if I didn't make any accusations--that he compartmentalized his life in that way. I probably wasn't even someone who was worth his concern--just someone to fuck while he was traveling. He didn't mean to bring me near death. To my understanding, he just was one of those men who had to be more intense as a sexual relationship developed. Each session needed to be wilder, rougher than the previous one for him to reach sexual satisfaction.

What scared me was that I had reached this understanding because each more intense sexual experience with Lorenzo had heightened my sexual release and satisfaction as well.

I hadn't said anything to Fed either about the experience. We just picked up life as we had lived it before. Ours was a reasonably open relationship, though, at least in Fed's understanding that I was highly sexed and sometimes needed younger cock than he could give me. I kept Fontel Wallace's contact information and we found a way to meet occasionally over the next two decades and to fuck like lovers. He still, to this date, has the biggest, most satisfying cock, I've ever taken.