Tuscan Twilight Ch. 01bysr71plt©
Ch 1: Remembrance
As always, a trip to the hot spa and springs at Val d'Orcia had made me feel vigorous and virile. Rosella would be getting quite a workout tonight. I thanked my lucky stars that Rosella had been so accommodating after my wife and mistress had both died unexpectedly within months of each other two years ago. I couldn't be more lucky to now have Rosella to turn to. But, no that wasn't fully true. For that brief period, several decades ago, before I had to take over the family responsibilities, I had been happier. In recent weeks, I'd been coming more and more back to the memories of those too-few happy months of my youth—and to my American lover. I wondered now if this was a harbinger of the end of my days. I was only in my mid sixties and in as good a condition as considerable money and leisure could buy, but my family hadn't been known for its longevity.
It must have been these memories that caused me to pull off the highway and motor into the center of Lucca to break my trip back to Montebella, the family estate in the hills above Marina de Massa and the Ligurian Sea off the coast of Tuscany. When I'd left Val d'Orcia I could hardly wait to get back to my Tuscan vineyard in the lushest of all seasons, the September grape harvest time, and into Rosella's arms. But the memories had crowded in as I neared Lucca, and I found myself homing in on that city's Piazza dell'Anfiteatro—where I had met my American lover all those self-denying years ago.
As I walked into the piazza and toward the Cafe del Mercato, I wondered if that sidewalk café was still as notorious as a pickup spot of a certain notorious kind as it was in my youth. And then, as the café came into view, my heart gave a lurch, and I could feel a now-rare awakening in my groin as well.
Could it be? No, that was impossible. He looked just as Kyle had looked that first day. He was sitting at the same table, in the same chair, that Kyle, my American lover, had been sitting when I started into that last, heart-wrenching unspeakable affair. My last carefree hurrah before my duties to our ancient Tuscan family line had taken over my life and had hardened my heart to my own needs. This was the same muscular, blond American beauty of my youth—the very same youth. He wasn't a day older than when I'd first seen him shining in the light filtering into the piazza and flashing that open, intoxicating American smile. And yet I was no longer the youth I had been then. Could it be that time stood still for Kyle when it started to rush in the set trenches of family duty for me all those years ago? No, it couldn't be.
I willed myself to just stroll on by the café, to keep tapping my gold-headed cane along the cobblestones and circle back to the car and speed back to Rosella's accommodating arms. But then he smiled at me, that golden all-American boy smile, and my remembrances took hold of my feet and pulled me into the café.
"Excuse me, young man," I said in my 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," I said. "You look so much like someone I once knew."
"I'm American," he said, as if that would negate any possibility that we'd previously met.
"Yes, somehow I knew that," I answered. "So was he. Tell me, do you, by any chance, have anyone named Kyle in your family? Someone who had visited Italy before?"
"Well, I do have a granduncle with that name," the youth said. "And I do know he traveled in Europe when he was young, but I don't know if he ever was in Italy."
"It seems quite likely he was," I answered, but I didn't explain further when the young man gave me a quizzical look. "And your name, if I might ask?" I didn't want the conversation to end, and I wondered yet again whether this young American had any idea what signals young men—at least local men—customarily were sending by sitting in this spot in this café. I began to be quite conscious of what was going on between my thighs. The waters of the Val d'Orcia had put me into the mood, and the reminisces of my golden autumn with Kyle those many years ago had directed that mood down a path I had studiously denied myself for decades.
"Dakota . . .?" I wanted a surname; I wanted some sort of confirmation of a connection.
"Just Dakota," he said. "I'm traveling through Europe as a vagabond. Just finished law school in the States, and it was such a long, hard grind getting to that point that I'm rewarding myself with an autumn of wandering in search of paradise. I think I've found the perfect place for just letting my hair down and letting adventure take me where it will here in Tuscany."
"Indeed," I answered. The situation here was still enigmatic. I was receiving what I thought were signals, but did this luscious young man have any notion that signals were even in play here?
"I said, and what's your name?" he was saying to me.
A waiter had come to the table for my order, which had cut through the fog of my ruminating, but I only belatedly noticed the sharp look the young American gave me after the waiter, knowing full well who I was, had practically genuflected to me both in approaching and leaving the table.
"Oh, the long version is that I'm the seventh Conte di Ghiberti of Massa, Tuscany. But you can just call me Luciano, if you like," I answered with a low laugh.
"My, that sounds very impressive and rich," he said, his eyes dancing in the sunlight. And did I perceive him move his chair a bit closer to me and lean in more toward me?
"Yes, I'm afraid that is my burden," I responded. And he had no idea what a burden it had been, something that forced me into a life I didn't really want to lead and away from the greatest love of my life—who this blond god before me strikingly resembled. "I'm afraid my illustrious family goes back in the Tuscan area to a very rich and powerful distant relative and benefactor, Pope Pius V. He somehow inherited Tuscany as a personal duchy and set his favored relatives up in business. The Ghibertis have been entrenched in the hills north of here between the villages of Massa in the vineyard district and Marina de Massa on the Ligurian Sea for the last two centuries. We made our money on silk and banking and have proceeded to spend it on wine and sex—many varieties of sex."
There, I'd sent out a signal of my own, and the young American Dakota quite clearly showed that he knew exactly why he'd been sitting in the spot in this particular café. I felt a hand on my knee. It probably was a cool hand, but it felt hot enough to me to burn its way through the silk fabric of my trousers and brand my thigh for what I'd always known I was.
"Fascinating," he said, turning on that big smile of his again. "I'm just wandering through Italy, taking small jobs where I can to get me to the next village, or otherwise availing myself of the generous hospitality of the . . . men . . . of the region."
"If you are headed north," I said, trying to keep my wits about me and my voice level under the burning hand that was slowly creeping up my thigh, "perhaps you might be interested in availing yourself of my family estate, the Villa Montebella, for a few days."
"That would be super," Dakota was saying, but nearly all of my attention was now centered on his hand, which had reached my basket and was finding that I could be quite hospitable to him indeed.
Dakota busted out into a grin when he saw that I was driving a Lamborghini Murcielago, the fastest production car in existence, and I showed him just how fast it could go as we wound our way up toward Massa in the hills, hillsides covered with regular rows of cascading vines, heavy with luscious grapes, aching to be plucked. I was suddenly young again—not just in having a second chance at a similar experience that family traditions had denied me, but, strangely, at having a nearly identical experience to the most arousing and fulfilling experience I'd ever had. I idiotically wondered as I picked up speed on the familiar twisting road up into the hills whether Dakota could be both as forceful and gentle as my Kyle, and more idiotically still if his body was really as beautiful as Kyle's had been and his tool as long, thick, and masterful as Kyle's.
Dakota wasn't helping. He was ensuring his welcome to Montebella by, first, rubbing my slowly hardening cock through my silky trousers, and, then, uncovering it and getting it unbelievably hard for a man of my years. If I hadn't been such a skillful driver, and the road had not been so familiar, I'm sure that my trembling at his touch would have put us to tumbling down onto the rock-enclosed terraces cascading down to the sea.
As it was, when I told him we were now on Ghiberti land, he urged me, with a husky voice, to pull off into one of the side access roads, and we kissed deeply and he sucked me off with huge slurping sounds from him and groans and grunts from me. He was as vigorous and insistent and alive as Kyle had been that autumn, and I found myself imagining that my lover had returned to me and everything was just as it once was as I watched the golden curls on the back of his head billow and bob around between my belly and the Lamborghini's leather-clad steering wheel.
I was being foolish, I knew. I had almost to pinch myself to acknowledge that this wasn't Kyle returning to me in the full flower of my youth, but a young opportunist concentrating on his next meal and where he would be able to sleep for free with a minimum of unpleasant servicing. I didn't, however, think the servicing would be all that unpleasant. I was still handsome, if mostly gray, and I had managed to keep my body both firm and supple.
My granddaughter, Gabriella, met us at the door and gave Dakota a look that seemed to pierce right through to the center of him, and then a look of surprise at me, but she kept her tongue. She was a fiery one, with a quick temper and an acid tongue, but I ruled the family with a strong will and a locked cash box, and she said nothing. She gave Dakota another look of disdain, and he gave her a look that told me immediately that he would swing more than one way, given the opportunity, and then she led us into one of the dining rooms. She left us then, while we drank a glass of the estate's best wine, and returned shortly, with Rosella in tow, and a quite presentable late meal for two.
The meal done, I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed until morning and guided Dakota up to the master suite, ignoring Gabriella's muttered comment and Rosella's surprised look.
Dakota quickly, masterfully, and completely took control as soon as the heavy oaken door had shut behind us—just as Kyle had always done. 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 me on an easel beside a fireplace, and focusing on the huge four-poster bed beside two full-length glassed doors leading to a balcony and looking down through heavily fruited terraces of grape vines to the near-distant Ligurian Sea. It was near 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 our hilltop prominence to the turquoise Mediterranean waters below.
Dakota tore at my clothes, telling me how nice I was, saying all of the right things to keep me in need of his power and youthful attention. When he had me undressed, he sat me down on the end of the bed, stepped back, and slowly disrobed, showing me a perfectly formed, heavily muscled body every much as achingly beautiful as Kyle's had been in my treasured memories. And he was horse-hung too, with low-hanging, egg-sized balls poking out of a profusion of curly, golden-blond pubic hair. His butt cheeks were bulbous, firm but round as melons. I could hardly wait to get my hands cupped around those butt cheeks and my tongue on his cock.
Nor did he make me wait. He moved right into me. He pushed his cock between my lips and started a quickening rhythm, forcing me initially to gag from the immediacy and unfamiliarity of the act. But I was quick to remember how it had been with Kyle and all those other young Italian studs during my ever-so-brief months of freedom from convention, and I cupped his butt cheeks with my hands and very soon had him moaning and sighing his delight. Remembrances of the pleasure this gave me was quick to return to me as well. When we had established a rhythm, I took my hands from his buttocks and roamed his body. I closed my eyes, and I once again found all of those mounds and crevices that had excited me about my Kyle. The same big, taut nipples surrounded with the same coin-sized, rough-textured aureoles. The same surprising thick patch of curly blond hair running across his pecs and down his sternum and belly to meet with his thick profusion of pubic hair—the hair on his arms, legs, and chest so blond that it hardly was noticeable to the eye, but was oh so silky to the touch.
He pushed me back onto the bed and was kneeling above my chest now, forcing his cock down into my mouth and throat like a piledriver, trying to get it all inside my mouth. I sputtered and pulled away long enough to beg him to slow down, but just like Kyle, he was relentless in his attack.
"Later, later," he said back to me in a throaty voice, just as Kyle had done. "Big. Make me big now. I want you to feel every inch of my length and width when I show you what an American stud can do to an Italian count's ass."
I'd already known what an American stud could do to me, I wanted to yell back at him. But I also didn't want him to stop. Kyle had always given it to me rough to start, which had only made his subsequent tender lovemaking all that better.
Dakota was out of my mouth now, and he'd gone down below the edge of the bed and his mouth, and then his tongue, were at my asshole. The rimming, kissing, licking, nibbling and tongue plunging went on for several minutes, and it felt wonderful. Oh, what had I given up for my responsibilities to my family? It had been so long since my body had been this awake, since it had been played so expertly and completely. I almost cried out in grief that I was being given this reminder in the autumn of my years of what might have been, what joy I could have had if I had not been so tied to the responsibility and luxury of Tuscany.
And now he was stuffing that huge sausage of his brutally inside me. He had his hands under my buttocks and was rotating my hips back and forth on his huge cock head, pushing himself into me. Just like Kyle would do. I closed my eyes tightly again and imagined it was Kyle taking me brutally and totally again, just as he had done the day I told him of my impending marriage and what that meant. The last time I'd ever seen Kyle. I opened my eyes, and through the haze of my aging pupils, I saw Kyle's beautiful torso again pushing in between my spread thighs. The same strong, rolling muscles. Biceps; pecs; heaving, flat belly. Hard, bobbing nipples and silky, golden torso hair. His ruggedly handsome-featured face was all intensity, painted with the determination to plug my withering hole with his young, vigorous cock. His blond curls billowed around his head in the waning rays of light reflected up from the Mediterranean waters and through the French windows.
"Kyle, Kyle, Kyle," I sang to myself, and I found myself relaxing. Kyle had returned to me and was fucking me in that old, wonderful way we had found that pleased us both.
As the muscles at the center of me relaxed, Dakota's bulbous dick head breached past my sphincter, and now I was pulling his cock slowly inside myself with ass muscles that never seemed to have forgotten their former master, Kyle. My ass muscles were making love to Dakota's dick as it plowed up me, and he was crying out his pleasure and surprise.
"Yeah, yeah. God, that's good. Fuck, you have one sweet ass! Italian ass. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
He gathered up my legs with both of his hands and spread me wide, giving him purchase for that last couple of inches of cock. And then he rode me and rode me and rode me. I shot my patrician semen far up his belly long before he had cum himself, in fast, furious, unrelentless strokes deep inside me.
It was dark outside when he'd finished me. He padded off to the toilet, while I just lay there, my chest heaving, trying to catch my breath, and wondering if I was having a heart attack or already was in heaven. I laughed at the thought that I had been excited about the prospect of fucking Rosella tonight after an invigorating visit to the spa. I hadn't even imagined at the time that this would happen to me. I long ago had given up on the idea that I would ever again be doing this, having this done to me.
Dakota padded back into the room and told me what a nice bathroom I had, that it was nearly as big as his whole apartment back in New York City was. I searched his eyes for signs that this had just been something unpleasant he had to do to make his way through Italy, but, if that's how he felt, he hid it well. Of course, he was probably used to hiding his feelings this way. I'd seen the look he'd given Gabriella, and I suddenly was a little worried having him around. Before I could chew on this thought any further, though, he spoke up.
"Umm. Do you have a place for me to stay tonight, then?"
"Yes," I said, looking directly in his eyes. "Here, in my bed, inside me. You said there would be a more tender encounter later. For reasons I cannot tell you, that's important to me."
"Sounds good to me," he said in an off-hand voice. "Would you like to start in the shower? Yours seems big enough to handle a whole fucking regiment. Or a whole regiment fucking, for that matter." That big, open American smile and laugh again.
We showered together, with him taking the lead on soaping us off, and then getting down on his knees and languidly sucking me off, with his hands strongly holding me at the upper thighs, keeping me from melting into the floor in a tremulous heap at what his mouth was doing to my cock.
He dried us both off. Me first, after which he settled me in the center of my bed and then put on an exhibition of drying himself off with the thick bath towel. Then he came up on the bed and stretched himself beside me and took my lips in his. His hands roamed my body, and once again his tongue found my asshole, and when he'd gotten me open and wet, he fucked me in a side-split, much more gently this second time, as he had promised and as I had said I wanted. He fucked me from behind and below with both of us resting on our sides, him holding my leg up from my body at first to give his cock close access—just like Kyle had always done in his tender moments. I drifted off to sleep, a tired, aging man, with that big cock of his gently rocking back and forth inside me. And the last sighed word on my lips before I slept was "Kyle." And it was my beautiful, young, virile Kyle I dreamt about.
I woke before Dakota did. His cock was still inside me and was flaccid now. But even when flaccid, it filled me. I was satiated now and beginning to worry about what I'd done and how the grandchildren and Rosella would take this erratic behavior on my part and intrusion on Dakota's part. A silly old man, taking a young blond vagabond stranger into his bed. This was Tuscany, and they were no fools. They knew that the rich and powerful did whatever they wanted here and were eccentric enough to try almost anything. But it had been so long, and I'd never told anyone what I had sacrificed for what the family had established here.
Dakota was coming alive and running his hands around my body now. One of the servants had come in and closed the shutters over the French doors in the night, but strong sunlight was fighting its way between the slats and creating a striped pattern across our naked bodies, mine cuddled inside Dakota's. I watched the palm of Dakota's hand spread across my belly in the alternating shadow and strip of sunlight and felt his dick coming to life inside me.