Thousand and Second Night

I was still thinking of them and wondering what Bardini had to offer me when I heard him leave my father's villa. I stopped the record, hid the book, turned off the light, and, still wearing the costume, slipped into bed. My father opened the door to my bedroom but, thinking I was asleep, closed it without speaking. Soon thereafter my father and Jovan went to bed. My father's bedroom was on the other side of the villa, but the doors to the terrace from both bedrooms were open to the summer breezes, and I could hear them fucking. The door from my bedroom opened directly onto the terrace with a swimming pool between the house and the cliff down to the sea. The park where I was told a car was waiting for me was just steps away.

* * * *

He had done it. He had waited for me, I could see. As I walked from the edge of our property into the park next door, the outline of a big, long, dark car materialized out of the night. I felt a thrill go through my body. The maestro had waited for me to come to him. As I got closer I saw that there was a man standing by the car and leaning into the fender, but it wasn't Bardini. The man was trimmer and younger, dressed in black, trousers and a pullover shirt. He was smoking a cigarette. My first impulse was to turn and go back to our villa, but he saw me and called out, "Vieni qui—Come here. He's over here. Inside the car."

As the man said that, he moved to the back of the black, very-long car, and opened the back door. The interior light in car came on, and there he was, Arturo Bardini, smiling and beckoning to me. He'd taken his black evening coat off. A white shirt, unbuttoned half way down his chest, gleamed in the reflection of the car's interior light. His chest was covered with black, curly hair, which I found sexy.

I hesitated, the last time I would have the opportunity and time to do so, but the man holding the car door open gestured to me and in a voice laced with impatience said, "Forza, ragazzo. Sii veloce—Come on, boy. Be quick."

When I reached the car, Bardini pulled me inside, saying, "Good, boy. My beautiful little Scheherazade. You have come to me. I knew you would." I was under him from the beginning, a bit painfully because of the size of him, even though he took much of his weight on his elbows and knees. I wasn't there to have a discussion of any sort with him. I thought of my father and Jovan, back at the villa, fucking, and I told myself, why not me too?

The car door shut and the interior light went out. The other man walked around the car and got in behind the wheel, his face forward, but whenever I looked, he was watching us in the rearview mirror of the car.

"Guiseppe, music, please. What I asked you to put on." While he was pulling the harem vest I was wearing over my bare chest off me, Bardini was giving the driver instruction. He reached up and turned the overhead light on in the back of the car. It was some sort of limousine, because the driver's compartment was separated from the commodious back by a glass partition. The music that came on was Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade. That played all the time Bardini was fucking me.

He got right down to business, arrogant in his assurance that he could have me—that he had prepared me well enough, having sensed how vulnerable and ripe for it I was. I couldn't say he was wrong. I struggled a bit at one point, but only in fear of the initial pain I knew would be involved. All of the stars had aligned. I was ready for this. I was eighteen. It was time for me to make my choices.

I had come to him.

Holding me in thrall under his body across the plush rear seat, he covered my face and throat and chest with kisses, and the Italian hands were everywhere, not giving me any opportunity to avoid them or to slow him down in his grunting feasting on me. As the music rolled over us and he kissed and fondled me, he was murmuring as well, weaving stories of the Arabian Nights and of his characterization of Scheherazade, a eighteen-year-old blond, blue-eyed youth, coming to and lying with the sultan every night under the sultry summer stars and spinning stories for him. Bardini was the sultan and I was his harem boy.

He murmured that this was a summer I'd never forget, and I did not gainsay him on that.

He captured my hands and ran them into his shirt front, into his chest hair. I found this arousing, maybe more so than if he'd taken the shirt off.

I recognized the story Bardini was spinning. It was from the book he'd given me—his version of The Thousand and One Nights, and, having gone over the book with trembling interest, I connected the story he was murmuring to the illustrations in the book—of the separate positions in which the sultan was covering the boy.

This wasn't going to be a long seduction—the seduction had been accomplished at lunch two weeks previously. Bardini moved me into the position, his knees between my spread legs, my leg against the back of the seat raised, my ankle on his shoulder. He kissed down my chest, and when he found the harem pants I was wearing an obstacle, he unbound them, slowly brushing the flap open. I gasped, as he hoped I would, as he ran his fingers through the short curls of my pubes before moving into stroking my cock and fondling my balls for a few moments, me panting and moaning, before he stripped the pants off my legs. I arched my back and groaned as he took me in his mouth. One of his hands was clutching my throat, holding my head down on the seat. I moaned and gasped at the sensation of a man inhaling and sucking my cock and licking and nipping at my balls. This too conjured up an illustration in the book he'd given me.

I had dreamed of this—and had seen my father and Jovan doing it—so I gave it no resistance. I wanted to feel what my father felt when Jovan did it with him.

I'd had no idea a man would do that to a youth, though, but Bardini was doing it to me. I'd had no idea of the sensations and emotions that would cause to flood forward, but the flood of my cum in his throat produced gagging but also low laughter. I was embarrassed that I had come, and done so so quickly, but Bardini seemed pleased.

"Oh, my beauty," he murmured. "So beautiful, so compliant. So ready for the mysteries to be enjoyed."

He kissed up my torso again. He was dressed other than his shirt being open to reveal bulging breasts, a round belly, and a thatch of dark hair, but he took my hand and moved it down to reveal that he was unbuttoned, unzipped, and flared below and his cock, hard as a rock, was out. I looked down and could see that he was engorged—and thick, if not long. He put my hand on his cock and growled, "Stroke it." I complied.

The growl surprised me, but it aroused me too. The time for cajoling was past. He was driven, an animal driven by need and instinct. He would have me.

I cried out in violation and surprise as he penetrated me with a finger—and then another—and dug and moved it inside. "Sii aperto per me—Open to me. Give me your hole," he growled. "No, don't stop stroking me." I felt my channel loosening, stretching to his assault. He laughed, thinking I was doing that willingly. But my body was doing that on its own.

The fingers came out and I struggled a bit as he put his body in position over me. As he had commanded, I was still grasping his hard cock, and I could feel he was in position between my thighs. I had seen the illustration in the book; I had watched Jovan fuck my father. I knew what was coming. I knew where that hard shaft between his legs—and now between my thighs—wanted to go. I wanted it, but I knew it would be painful, and I had no idea it would happen this fast and this furiously. I showed signs of resistance. The hand came off my throat, but only briefly. He slapped me, twice across the face.

"Prendere il mio cazzo—Take my cock," Bardini commanded. I knew what he meant by "take," and it wasn't just handing it. I already was grasping it.

"Lay back. Bend your legs, feet flat on the seat, pushing your hips up. Open to me."

Whimpering, I lay quiet for him, open, vulnerable, legs spread, my tail raised to meet his possessing hand. And then he fucked me.

I gasped and panted and sobbed as he penetrated and moved up into me. When he was in, though, I relaxed. It was done. I had wanted it done. I lay there docilely, my head turned toward the front seat, my eyes picking out the eyes of the driver, Guiseppe, in the rearview mirror, as Bardini stretched and worked me with his cock. The driver was fucking me too—with his eyes—but it was three of us in this fuck, not just the two in the backseat.

Bardini was driven, now inside me. It was all about him and his pleasure. He fucked hard, fast, deep, snorting his need, a bull who would not be deterred. It was painful, but that flowed away as my fear and tension flowed away. I had wanted this, had wondered what it would be like, had permitted myself to be cajoled and seduced.

Above me, with practically no time having gone by that I could discern, Bardini tensed and jerked and came; tensed and jerked and came—inside me.

He lay there on top of me, heavy, but not as heavy as he would have been if he weren't supporting himself on his knees and elbows. He was gasping and panting. I could feel him shrinking inside me. His hands began to move over my body again, and he leaned down and kissed me on the lips and then down to the throat—and on down to the nipples.

"Bravo ragazzo. Dolce ragazzo—Good boy. Sweet boy," he murmured. The music had stopped and we were in some sort of suspension of time. At the time I didn't know why everything had just stopped. I waited for him to withdraw from me and to get off me, but he didn't. Now, a long time afterward, I realized he wasn't finished—that he was just recovering. The first time had been too rushed for him. He needed something to savor.

The kissing and fondling continued and I began discern that he was coming alive again, down there.

"The music again, Guiseppe," Bardini called out and the opening strains of Scheherazade started once more. He was engorged enough again to turn me without losing purchase. He was sitting in the middle of the backseat, holding me in his lap, his cock still inside me. I was facing forward, the palms of my hand and my forehead pressed to the glass partition. Bardini grasped my waist between his hands and began raising and lowering me on his cock. The fuck had begun again.

"You do it. Fuck yourself," he hissed after a few moments, and, pressing my feet to the floor, I took over the movement, rising and falling on the cock. One of his hands palmed my belly and the other one went to my cock, stroking me off again.

This time, the driver didn't just watch through the rearview mirror. He turned in the seat, his face close to mine, his eyes drilling into mine, watching every expression on my face as I panted and moaned through Bardini's cock working inside me again.

The driver—Guiseppe—smiled. He pulled his polo shirt over his head to reveal a hard-bodied, smooth, olive-skinned chest. His nipples had rings in them. He arched his back against the dashboard and played with the nipple rings with one hand and reached down with the other. His muscular torso was gorgeous—all curves and power. I knew he had his cock out and was stroking it, watching Bardini fuck me again. Guiseppe kneed his way up the back of the driver's seat so that I could see that, indeed, he was masturbating himself. He was a big-cocked man. He pointed his shaft at me and beat himself off, his eyes never leaving mine, while I rose and fell on Bardini's cock. Three of us were sharing sex.

I felt so wanton because I found Guiseppe beautiful. I fancied he was an Arab from the Arabian Nights and that I would learn how he fucked as well—younger, harder of body than Bardini was. I wanted Guiseppe to fuck me too.

Bardini took control of the fuck after I had spouted off onto the back of the front seat. When he came this time, his arms wrapped around my chest, his lips plastered into my throat, vigorously lifting and lowering me on his cock, he only held for a short time before snorting, tensing, shooting off, and pushing me off to the side.

"Guiseppe, ho finite—I'm done," he called out, rapping his knuckles on the glass partition. And that was it. He was finished with me. The fantasy for him was complete. He didn't really give a shit whether it was for me at the moment. He was satisfied.

"Voglio vederti mentre lo fai adesso—I want to watch you do him now."

Leaving the music going, Guiseppe came out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled me out. I was surprised, but gave no struggle, when what he did then was to roughly pull me around to the open driver's door, push me down on my chest on the driver's seat, hold my head down with a hand to the back of my neck, pull my other arm up to my shoulder blades in back with his other hand, position himself behind me, mount and penetrate me, and take his turn fucking me.

Part way through his fuck, he turned me onto my back on the seat and, crouching over me, my legs raised, my feet finding purchase on the car's ceiling and the door frame, he clutched my throat, keeping my head on the passenger seat, and finished the fuck. When he turned me, Guiseppe slapped me across the face to establish his cruel control, just as Bardini had done when he put me in this position. This had the same enhanced arousal effect as when Bardini did it, and Guiseppe showed both surprise and pleasure when I responded to it by reaching up with my hands and latching onto his nipple rings, tugging on them, and by digging in my feet and using them for leverage to rock on his thrusts, joining him in the fuck.

Both of them had barebacked me, knowing it was my first time. In the backseat, Bardini leaned forward against the glass partition, taking it all in, this time it being his eyes that captured and held mine while I was being fucked.

I didn't struggle. I'd already wished it in my mind.

They left me on the glass verge beside the parking area of the park, sitting on the grass with my vest, turban, and harem pants in my arms, and watching the sleek black limousine glide out onto the road to Nice and disappearing in the dark.

All three of us had what we wanted, but, whereas it was a beginning for me, it appears it was an end for the two Italians.

* * * *

For weeks later I waited in anticipation for Arturo Bardini to call me to come to him again—to somehow arrange it so that we could do it again. I had lascivious thoughts about his driver too. But he never contacted me; I never saw him again. My father didn't even think to take me to the premier of the Ballet Nice Méditerranée's production of Fikret Amirov's Arabian Nights. He took Jovan instead. He could have taken me as well, but he didn't.

I treasured that first record of mine, though, the recording of Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade that the Florence Symphony conductor gave me, and I played it often, it continuing to have special meaning for me. I also kept the gay male version of The Thousand and One Nights hidden well and consulted often.

I didn't pine for Bardini forever. A young, very successful and Bohemian British novelist moved into the villa next to ours. He saw me on the beach below our villa; invited me up to his terrace to discuss his writing and for us to exchange story tellings, mine so often being Arabian tales; and he took me to his bed and fucked me silly. He gave me a funny look when I called out the number one thousand and four the first time he fucked me, but he didn't ask me for an explanation.

And then there was Jovan, becoming so safe in his relationship with my father and taking advantage of my reaching the age of consent that he felt free to bed me as well when my father wasn't there. I, of course, didn't care. Opportunities were opening for me, and one man's cock was as good as another's for giving me pleasure and making me feel wanted.

Years later I was still giving numbers to my exotic couplings. Sometime around number one thousand and fifty, I stopped counting.

[Author's note: The first record album I owned was a recording of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade, given to me by a dinner guest of my parents who was an orchestra conductor.]