Unwanted Wedding

"Isn't she beautiful? Such sleek lines."

"Yes. But for how much longer?" Paul Pettit answered his brother, Philip. They'd gone on shore in Naples for a morning away from the chaos of the quickly whipped-up double marriage ceremony and were returning to the yacht in a motor launch. The boat was anchored near the Isle of Capri, across Naples Bay.

"I was talking about Gabrielle," Philip said, with a laugh.

"So was I," Paul answered, his voice a bit morose. He was trying to think he wasn't being railroaded into this double marriage with his brother as the other groom, but there it was. He was having cold feet.

"Gabrielle, the ship, not Gabrielle—your blushing bride Gabby. I was talking about the yacht. Biggest and baddest one in the bay today."

The confusion was understandable. Watching their motor launch approach and waving from the rails of the top deck of the yacht Gabriella was Gabriella, the woman, the Countess Gabriella Fabbri, known as Gabby to her friends and past and prospective husbands. From this distance she looked no older than a very-well-preserved forty, rather than her actual sixty-two, which didn't take a large edge off the fact that Paul Pettit, her intended in two days' time, was twenty-eight.

"She's hardly blushing—the bride," Paul said. "Every time I turn around she acknowledges another husband she's had. And she's obviously had more than her share of someone else's husband."

"And the husbands have all had money," Phillip came back with. "And they all wanted her because she was a beautiful and vivacious woman. She didn't build and isn't maintaining this yacht herself. You're the lucky next husband. You will be receiving money, not giving it."

They both stood there in the motor launch, admiring the sleek lines of the sixty-five meter, five-deck, Codecasa-designed yacht, with its nine-bedroom cabin capacity. It indeed was a far more comfortable world Paul would be entering than he currently lived in—than either of the brothers inhabited. Philip, at thirty-one, also was moving up in class in marrying the French-national Rome fashion designer, Nita Pelletier, who, at forty-eight, was still model trim and attractive, and who now joined Gabriella at the fifth-deck rail and waved to the young men. But Philip wasn't making the sacrifice that Paul was, and he knew it—and Paul didn't stint from reminding him who was taking on the most work and sacrifice in their grab for a better life.

Both men had a good life already and were blessed with good genes, handsome faces and bodies, and Ivy League educations. Philip was the more public of the two, a middle-of-the-pack professional tennis player, who still, at what was elder statesman status on the pro tennis circuit, was making it to the second round in Grand Slam tournaments. Paul was the mid-listed novelist who knew he could write that breakout novel if only he didn't have to worry about money. Seeing the end of his tennis career looming and not sure where to go next, Philip also felt the pinch of not enough money, something he'd always had before, and it had been his idea for the two men to go on the prowl together and attract rich wives. The plan had worked. They both had done that—or were within two days of doing that. For now, though, the two were scared shitless at the changes to come.

The one thing they'd agreed to before they embarked on this was that they weren't going to be total gigolos about it. They were determined to marry fascinating women they would work on loving. The only added proviso was that the women had to be filthy rich. They didn't set out to match up with older women—much older, in Paul's case—but the two best friends, Gabby and Nita, had been the best they could find. Both women were smart as whips, sex on wheels in bed, witty, and great conversationalists. At one point Paul had complained about Gabby's age and when Philip called him on it, said, "Then why don't you marry Gabby and I'll take Nita?" He almost swallowed his words, though, as his brother knew him too well.

"I will if you like," Philip said. "It won't be easy, because I think Gabby genuinely loves you. She certainly likes you more than she does me. But if you want to give it a try—"

"No, sorry," Paul answered. "I know Gabby is the best for me . . . it's just too bad we are from two different generations in age."

"Sometimes I think she's younger than you are," Philip said.

"That's because she can be carefree. She has all the money she possibly could need."

Then they had both laughed, having come full circle again to why they both had gone on the international social circle to attract rich wives.

"I think we have company," Paul said, pointing to extra motor launches pulled up to the pontoon dock attached to the Gabriella as they putted in. Then he looked up, exclaimed a "Shit" under his breath, and said, "How did he get here?"

Philip looked up, his eyes working down the line of men surrounding the two women. There were four young and one older, but distinguished-looking, men lounging on the rail around the women. This wasn't unusual. Gabby and Nita surrounded themselves with men and avoided the presence of women. Both Paul and Philip had just been members of the entourage until they had moved up to a regular presence in the women's beds and, eventually, central roles in their lives. It didn't take him long to figure out which of the men had elicited the "Shit" from his brother's lips. Paul wasn't given to easy profanity.

"You mean Steve?"

"Yes, I fuckin' mean Steve Talbot. How did he find out? . . . It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I'll admit it. Steve had been pestering me to come to the weddings. The women decided it wasn't enough for you and me to serve as each other's best men. They wanted a groomsman too. And on short notice. Steve wanted to come. They both know and like him. Gabby actually told me to call him and invite him. I did and here he is. I thought it was over between you two."

"It is, of course," Paul said. "Still, I don't need any more worries or distractions than are needed for the next couple days."

"Besides, it never went too far with you two, did it?" Philip asked, as they started climbing the ladder from the pontoon dock to the salon deck of the Gabriella.

It sure as hell did, Paul, thought, as he grimly set the welcoming smile he knew would be expected of him and pulled himself up onto the yacht.

* * * *

Gabby had been the one to propose to Paul. Philip had been playing in a tennis tournament in Monaco and had messaged that he would be proposing to Nita at dinner on the waterfront after the championship match—which he wasn't involved in; he'd lost out two rounds before the final. He'd stuck around at the tournament because the partying that went on on the sidelines of these events had become as important to him as playing tennis matches before a crowd was. Gabby and Paul had flown in from her Tuscan villa near Lucca to be there. The proposal had gone swimmingly. Later, Paul and Gabby had sunk into romantic and sentimental sex in her Fairmont Monte Carlo suite, during which each had conveyed to the other how much they enjoyed each other's bodies and minds—neither mentioning love.

"Marry me," Gabby had said, simply.

Paul had groaned, sat up in bed, and reached over to the nightstand for a cigarette to light up. "We're doing so well as we are," he said. "Just because Philip and Nita—"

He felt like a dog. Philip had been pressing him to propose to Gabby for two weeks, knowing that he was going to make the plunge and that this had been their plan. He did like Gabby . . . a lot . . . perhaps, now, too much to marry her on false pretenses.

"I know it can't be more than companionship—and occasional incredible sex, at least for me," she said. "You're a real stud. But we do so well even as friends, and I don't want to continue into what's left of my life alone. I know it's no more than an arrangement, but that would be more than enough for me."

"You don't know everything about me, Gabby," Paul had said. "I respect you too much to—" Again, he felt like a letch. Taking advantage of her loneliness had, in fact, been the plan. But that had been before he'd become intimately connected with her—not just her aging body, but her mind and the fun of being with her. At her expense, of course.

"I know about Steve—about you and Steve Talbot," she said. "I'm not proposing that we don't pursue our own particular sexual interests. I'm proposing I have an heir closely enough attached to me that I can face the next years—for however long they are—with the knowledge that I have the support of a handsome and congenial young man. I don't care if Steve Talbot takes care of you as long as you take care of me."

What could Paul say after that? He said "yes" to her proposal. But he felt honor bound to do more than that. He cut it off with Steve Talbot.

And now Steve was on the yacht with him, two days before his marriage.

Paul took Gabby aside as they were all gathering for lunch at a long table on the fantail of the Gabriella and assured her that he hadn't invited Steve.

"I had Philip invite him," Gabby said. "I want to make sure you know that I was serious when I said the marriage could be completely open. That's also why I had Nita bring Francois with her. You can fuck Steve if you want—just not during the wedding ceremony, please."

What the hell does that mean—that you had Nita bring Francois? Paul wondered as they moved toward the stern of the yacht for lunch. Francois was one of Nita's men's wear designers. He modeled the clothes as well, and he modeled them deliciously. What did Gabby mean about Steve and Francois having been invited to make the same point?

* * * *

There were nine—two women and seven men—spread around the table on Gabriella's fantail. Stealing a march on the day after this one, the Countess Gabrielle Fabbri sat at one end—an end that she would have identified as the head of the table and none present would argue—and Paul Pettit sat at the other end. Count Paulo Umberto Fabbri, Gabrielle's last husband, had been seated at Paul's right and Nita Pelletier at his left. Gabby had positioned the newly anointed man of interest, Nita's fashion model and designer, Francois, at the countess's right, where she could lavish him with attention during the meal and he could expertly reciprocate. Gabby seated Steve Talbot to her left and she gave him some attention, always seeming to be asking him some intimate question when Paul caught her eye.

Paul's brother, Philip, was sitting between his intended, Nita, and Francois. On the other side of the count from Paul was located the count's young (extremely young looking), somewhat effeminate, and beautifully handsome personal assistant, a young Italian man named Roberto. Between Roberto and Steve sat the highly competent, hunky and athletic Kurt Hulbein, a German, who was managing all of the wedding arrangements and doing so with Germanic precision. When Paul had first appeared on the periphery of Gabby's entourage during a weeklong party at Wimbledon, Kurt had laid Paul and done so with precision. But as soon as Gabby had shown her own interest in Paul, Kurt had immediately backed off. There remained, however, sexual tension between the two men. Kurt was a dominant disciplinarian and Paul had discovered that this new world was one that expanded his arousal.

When everyone had gathered at the table, it was quite apparent that Gabby and Nita had managed to gather a magnificent collection of man flesh—most of the men significantly younger than they were—around them and had done so while omitting female competition. Even all of the staff on the yacht was composed of magnificently built young men. That there were currents of young men at the table being primarily interested in the other young men at the table didn't seem to threaten the two women at all. Bisexuality didn't seem to disturb the two cougars—not if the men also gave them a good fuck. Half of the men at the table had done both women, and the two were looking forward to fucking the rest—even the alabaster-skin, delicate, limp-wristed Roberto who Count Fabbri so obviously was fucking.

Nita's attention during the meal went almost entirely to her intended groom, Philip, to her left, that Paul was left mostly to converse with the count, Paulo, and that they had the same name became a starting point for their conversation.

"It will be awkward to have two Paul's in Gabriella's life," the count said, turning gray eyes on the American. That was the overall impression of him—gray. But it was a vibrant, silvery gray. If Paul had to cast a late-middle-age Italian count of old family, refinement, and wealth in a movie, he would look exactly like this man, who was both elegantly dressed, trim, and aristocracy personified. Paul was still bowled over that the man was here, one of only a handful of people invited to his former wife's next marriage—if, of course, he had been invited. "Do you have a middle name?"

"Yes," Paul asked, a bit off balance. "My middle name is Parker. It's a family name."

"Then you shall be known as Parker."

And that was that. No discussion on who would change, or that either would change. No discussion about the necessity to change. Paul—now Parker—had been put squarely in his place in this world. Parker didn't fight it, though, as there was no reason for the count to be in the picture at all after the marriage ceremony two days hence.

"Ah, I can see that you wonder why it matters. Why I would be involved in Gabriella's life after this at all." The count laughed. It was a friendly, amused laugh, though, and he patted Paul—henceforth Parker—on the knee under the table. "Gabriella isn't like other women. And I'm not like other men. We will remain in the same orbit. We only will add another character to our story—you. I'm sure I will enjoy you as much as Gabriella does."

"Well, I—" Parker started to say without knowing what he would say. He didn't have to say anything. The count was in full control. Parker was aware that the count was still largely paying for Gabriella's—and therefore, by extension, Parker's future—upkeep, including the maintenance on this yacht.

"Parker is an interesting name. It will suit you as I understand you are a very interesting young man. Gabriella tells me you are a fascinating companion and that you satisfy her in every way. That is quite a feat, as I well know that Gabriella is very demanding in bed. As am I, incidentally. I am very dominating. That is, of course, why you are the one who we need to find a name for. You are not the one to make the decisions. You are, I understand, perfectly matched to Gabriella's domination in bed. Also Steven Talbot's, I understand. They both fuck you; you don't dominate them."

Parker did a double take at that, which made the count laugh. He squeezed Parker's knee and moved his hand farther up the young American's leg. "Yes, I have already discussed you with the young man brought in to be your groomsman. He says you are the perfect submissive in bed. Oh, don't look so stunned. You are moving in rarified circles now. I'm sure Gabriella has told you what she expects in a marriage—and doesn't expect. You are in a world of sex is sex is sex now. Gender makes no difference. Not with Gabriella, not with me, and, I have learned, not with you. No wonder Gabriella is smitten with you. You intrigue me. I, of course, will want to bed you too. You will let me bed you, won't you? I will, of course, dominate you. I will fuck you."

Gabriella broke in then, at the end of the main course serving, and taking advantage of a round of champagne before the dessert course for a few short speeches and toasts. While these were going on, the count moved his hand up Parker's leg to his basket. The count gave Parker a piercing look, and the young man merely nodded his ascent. Parker opened his thighs wider and pushed his hips forward in the seat, giving the count greater access to his basket, which, given a low laugh, the count took advantage of. He traced the line of Parker's cock through the material of his trousers and was rewarded with a hardening of the shaft.

The American hardly realized that when Gabrielle toasted him from across the table, she referred to him as Parker. Gabriella and Paulo had had a meeting of the minds before the meal. Parker found out what that entailed during the dessert course.

"You may wonder why I am attending Gabrielle's wedding," he murmured to Parker when everyone else was engaged in another conversation.

"That had occurred to me," Parker said. Fabbri had taken his hand away from Parker's crotch but he copped a good feel before retracting his hand and complimented Parker on his equipment. Parker hardened up for him, so any denial of interest would have been met with a horse laugh.

"Divorce settlement laws are nearly the same everywhere internationally," the count said. "I was generous with Gabriella in her settlement—possibly overly generous—but the benefits are cut back considerably when she remarries, so you could think I am here to ensure the knot between you is well and legally made and then I leave with less of a financial burden and with such things as this yacht itself. Yes, this becomes my yacht again the day after tomorrow."

"So, shall I go and start packing after lunch?" Parker asked. He was more upset than he would show. He hadn't counted on Gabby's financial status to be diminished by this marriage. How much diminished, he wondered. He would have to give that thought and to talk it over with her. Maybe this marriage wasn't a good move.

"No," Fabbri laughed. "I can think of better things to do after lunch. It could be that I won't need the yacht for a few more months or that I need to be too quick about changing the stipend arrangements."

"Why are you telling me this?" Parker asked. And then he moaned as the count's hand was back on his crotch, unzipping him, and moving his hand inside.

"I think you can imagine why I'm telling you this. My generosity to Gabriella may very well hinge on your generosity to me. It's just Gabriella's and my way. She's fucked me. I have my way of answering her in kind. She fucks me; I fuck you. That's between me and her, but it interests you, as well. You want her to keep what she gets from me? If so, you can help earn it on your back with your legs open to me. As long as I want to fuck you and you lay under me in bed, arrangements for you and Gabriella will continue to be generous. I wouldn't be interested in you if I didn't find you very attractive. And hung too. Gabriella must be very pleased with that."

He had Parker's cock encased in his hand and was slow stroking him. Parker looked around the table, but no one was noticing. He felt his legs go to jelly and he widened his stance further. The count gave a low laugh, moved his grip down to the base of Parker's cock and laced the young man's balls in his finger. His index finger pushed farther down along Parker's taint. Almost involuntarily Parker rolled his tail up, giving Fabbri greater access. The young man looked up and down the table. Gabby was watching him now, giving him an intense look although Francois was talking to her and flirting with her. She had a slight smile on her face. She slit her eyes and licked her lips. She knew the count was possessing Parker. She wasn't objecting. The impression Parker got was that she'd happily include herself in a threesome.

"I am going to fuck you, am I not?" the count whispered.

"Yes, as you wish," Parker answered.

"Anytime, anywhere I want."

"Yes."

"The launches are taking anyone who wants to go into Naples for shopping this afternoon. The women are going. I'm sure most of the men will go as well," Fabbri continued, as he extracted his hand, zipped Parker up, stood from the table and dabbed his lips with his napkin. Others at the table were standing as well. Everyone was preparing to scatter, but, according to the count most of them would be assembling again shortly to take launches across the bay in Naples.