Brood Emperor
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I had been at the doors of the Naples National Archeological Museum when they opened that morning just to be able to go stand in front of the sculpture they have there of Antinous, the young lover of the Roman emperor Hadrian, for some minutes—to see a boy loved by an Emperor so much that he made him a god. Hadrian himself had been loved by the Emperor Trajan when he was a boy. There was a time in the Greek and Roman world when this was considered normal and was not remarked—certainly was not condemned and persecuted. In truth, the emperor Claudius had been mocked in his time for not having a boy lover.
From there I had taken a boat out to the Isle of Capri in the Bay of Naples and gone to the villa of the emperor Tiberius, the Villa Jovis, and sat in the ruins and considered his more lurid relationships with boys. He had taken it to extremes, but he had made it the fashion in his time. I wasn’t interested in the extremes Tiberius went to—I just wanted to make love to a small, supple, narrow-hipped, willing fourteen-year-old boy.
I don’t know why I had come to Italy and gone on a pilgrimage of men who had loved boys and not been persecuted for doing so. But I did. I had to go somewhere; I couldn’t live in the States or England anymore. Returning to Naples from Capri, rather than spending the night there as I planned, I got in my rental car and drove further south, down the Tyrrhenian Sea coast of Italy on the E45, down to Salerno and then on a road hugging the coast closer until I got hungry. It was early afternoon and it was getting hot in the unconditioned air of the rental car interior. I turned off the highway onto a secondary road and drove to the coast, looking for a restaurant.
I arrived in a small, old harbor town, stepping down steep hillsides on three sides into a beautiful little harbor cove, with fishing boats on the northern side tied up to narrow wooden piers and a sandy beach running around the southern curve of the cove. All of the houses were either ocher painted or white washed, with red tile roofs. Very picturesque. I had seen no sign telling me what the name of the town was, and the buildings tumbling down the hillside to the water were set so close together, separated by cobblestone paths, that I had to park the car at the top of the hill and walk down. Surely there would be restaurants down in the harbor, I thought.
There were a couple of restaurants there and I picked one with an outside terrace facing the water from where I could watch the activity among the fishing boats as well as a group of young men and boys playing a game of soccer on the beach on the southern side of the cove. I was close enough to see the forms and faces of the beautiful teenage boys and share their joy at the play. One young teenager, in particular, a beautiful, sultry, dark-haired boy of perfect form looked up at me occasionally and smiled shyly.
I took a long time at my lunch, not wishing to move on as long as there were so many beautiful boys moving so gracefully on the sand. I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly four in the afternoon. I had no idea where I was driving from here. The Isle of Capri had been my last programmed stop before driving on down the peninsula and switching to the other coast, to Brindisi, where I had read there were other villas where Roman emperors had kept their young male lovers.
I decided that this was as good a place to stop for the night as any other. I had passed a small hotel on the upper slopes of the town on my way down the narrow and steep cobblestone pathway to the harbor from where I’d parked the car. I stopped at the hotel on the way back up to the car park. Yes, they had a nice room, with a balcony, overlooking the harbor. It had its own bath too, the old woman at the reception desk said, which, considering the pride with which she said it, made me think that private bathrooms in hotels along the coast in villages tucked away like this weren’t necessarily the norm.
After viewing the room, clucking to the old lady about how nice it was, and paying for the night, I climbed back up to the rental car and retrieved my small suitcase. I had left Rome that morning before dawn for the drive down the coast, and the heavy, but delicious, fish meal had made me drowsy, so I stripped naked; laid down on the bed, with the French window to the balcony open to what little breeze there was coming up from the sea; and slept the sleep of the dead until after dark.
It was after nine when I left the hotel and went back down to the harbor, to the same restaurant, for dinner. Candles were set out on the terrace dining area and similar lights sparkled throughout the harbor village and cascaded down to reflect in the water of the cove. It was all very lovely.
I was surprised to find that the waiter was the beautiful young teenage boy I had seen playing soccer on the beach in the afternoon—the one I had smiled at and who had smiled back at me, frequently looking up to the terrace at me and, at least in my imagination, had been batting his long, dark eyelashes at me. Perhaps he wasn’t, but he did now as he waited on my table. Young teenage boys were my fetish and my downfall.
A young man, possibly eighteen or nineteen, was sitting on a stool in the corner of the terrace, playing a guitar and softly singing what must be Italian love songs or lullabies. He too was smiling at me and batting his eyelashes. He too was a beautiful, sultry, dark-haired young man. I wondered if all of the men of this remote—almost hidden, at least for me—village were this beautiful. I saw no reason not to accept that they were. I felt the stirring inside me—the need.
The young waiter’s name was Luigi, and he took every opportunity to speak with me, using his limited English, trying to improve his knowledge of the language, which was sufficient for the purpose. We exchanged what little background information we could, given Luigi’s limited English. I did manage to ascertain, as I had gauged and hoped, that Luigi was fourteen. I saw him go to the guitarist and overheard the word “American.” It wasn’t long before the guitarist took a break. Rather than going into the interior of the restaurant, he came over to my table.
“Excuse me. You are alone, I think. Luigi tells me you are an American. You were here this afternoon, watching us play football on the sands. Do you mind if I sit and speak to you about America for a few minutes before I go back to the guitar?”
“Certainly, sit,” I said. “I am enjoying your playing. And this is a lovely setting, with beautiful people everywhere.”
“You think we are beautiful here in this small village? More beautiful than people living beyond here? American is the land of beautiful people, isn’t it? There are times when I wonder if there is anywhere beyond here. We are so isolated. But you really think we are beautiful? You think I am beautiful? Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, not at all,” I said, and then laughed. “I meant I don’t mind if you smoke. You are a beautiful young man, yes.”
He took a pack of cigarettes out of a fold he’d made on the sleeve of his short-sleeved T-shirt. I looked at him more closely in the flare of his lighter. He was, in fact, extremely handsome. And his body was perfectly formed, a lightly muscular chest, with firm biceps, the torso tapering down to a thin waist and narrow hips. The face was classical Italian beauty.
“My name is Guido,” he said, catching that I was closely scrutinizing his body. “I go with men—with handsome men, like you. I see how you look at me. I see how you look at Luigi. You have a beautiful laugh. I think you are a beautiful man. You are here alone, and you look lonely and like you would like to ask me something—or ask Luigi something. You go with men too—and boys—do you not? Do you want to fuck me?”
“Excuse me?” I said, not hiding the shock. “How could you suppose—?”
He had a hand on my thigh. It moved to my crotch. “Because your body does not lie. Your eyes do not lie. I saw you this afternoon when we were playing football on the beach. You wanted Luigi. You wanted him sexually. I can see it and feel it here. You have been hard since Luigi was serving you. Can you be hard for me too? I am lonely tonight too. I would not cost you much. I know you are booked at the hotel near the top of the village. I think you have stopped here for the night because you want to bed Luigi or another boy. I would like to go with you. I know how to go upstairs in the hotel without going past the reception desk. I go with men. I lie under men. I will fuck you if that is what you prefer, but I think it is that you ache to fuck a boy like me.”
Oh, good lord, I thought.
I fucked him on the bed in my hotel room—or rather, he fucked himself on me initially. We were both naked. His body was beautiful, and mine must have been at least adequate, as he went hard quickly as I was fondling the nakedness of him, and he went down on his knees, taking my shaft into his mouth. I lay on the bed, feet dangling off the end, as he knelt on the floor and gave me head. As he sucked, he ran his hands over my body. I had already done so with him, savoring the beauty and suppleness of him. He was better developed than I really preferred, but he was a gorgeous young man. Perhaps just not quite young enough for me to fully enjoy taking charge of and controlling—doing what I wanted to do with an early teens boy.
After he had taken me to full erection with his mouth, he rose and came up into my lap, holding the root of my cock erect while positioning it at his hole, rubbing it on his rim to help him dilate sufficiently—I am a well-endowed man—and then sliding down on the cock while kneeling on my lap, with his bent knees on either side of my hips, holding onto my biceps with his hands and, when fully saddled, rising and falling on the cock. Fucking himself on my shaft.
He looked down into my eyes with an expression of fully enjoying the fuck. I tried to meet his gaze with the same—exhibiting that I was fully enjoying it, not just enjoying it enough to maintain an erection.
The friction of the fuck aroused me enough to become more animated. I took his narrow waist between my hands and helped raise and lower him. I moved him from side to side too and in a circular motion, making sure that every surface of his passage was receiving attention. He got into the fuck, pushing my back onto the surface of the bed, pressing his palms into the hollows of my shoulders, and gyrating on my shaft—rising high and slamming down, picking up the pace of the pumping. He was panting and gasping, moaning and groaning, riding me hard. With a little cry, he released his seed on my belly and, tensing and jerking, tensing and jerking, I gave him two barrels of my cum deep in his passage. It hadn’t all drained, though. My body was holding back a bit—not much, but enough that I, at least, noticed.
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