2 comments/ 25512 views/ 1 favorites Tuscan Twilight Ch. 01 By: sr71plt 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. "I'm Dakota." "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. Tuscan Twilight Ch. 02 Ch. 2: In Service I opened the door to Signorina Gabriella's bed chamber softly and slipped into the room. I hoped that I could do my morning duties there and be gone before the mistress awoke. She was sure to see my swollen eyes and would want to know why I had been crying. But it was just too awful; I didn't want to be the one to tell her. I passed close to the big four-poster bed in the center of the room on the way to the French doors to the small balcony overlooking the motor court at the back of Villa Montebella. The signorina was lying peacefully in the bed, although the sheets and spread were tangled about her, as if she'd had a fretful night. Her luxuriant black hair cascaded around her head and flowed over the pillow. She was a beautiful girl, no, now a woman. Her ample breasts rose and fell regularly as she slept; her diaphanous white peignoir had pulled off one of her breasts, and I stifled a sigh of desire as I saw the perfect, erect rosebud of a nipple rise and fall with her breathing. There had been a time when I had enjoyed the charms of Gabriella's rosebuds—a time when we both were very much younger and experimenting with our bodies and before I had been claimed by her grandfather, the Conte. Seeing her like this, though, in vulnerable repose, was all the more troubling for me in my plight, and I turned from her and quietly stole over to the French windows and drew the curtains back. The room was immediately flooded with Italian sunlight. I put my forehead to the warm glass and drank in the beauty of the Tuscan hills rising behind the villa. I loved this view, even though Gabriella often told me how much she hated it and resented it, claiming that it symbolized the difference in her status in the Ghiberti family, where all of the males in the family had rooms on the front, looking down toward the Mediterranean waters of the Ligurian Sea. Well, she should see the view from my room, in the dusty attic of the ancient villa, where I spent any night her grandfather didn't send for me. A tear fell on the window pane, and I watched it spin its way down the thick glass as I thought of last night. The Conte had gone to the springs at Val d'Orcia that day to take in the healing waters and had told me before he left that I would be sharing his bed last night. But he had not called for me when he returned, and when I had performed my opening duties in his chamber this morning, there was a stranger in his bed. What did this mean for me? A servant in the villas of the rich Tuscan families had to be in constant wariness of their positions. Was I about to be discarded by the Ghibertis? "Rosella! I asked you why you were just standing there mooning at the window?" I was jolted back to awareness of where I was and instinctively turned toward the bed, not thinking to shield my face. "Why, Rosella," Gabriella was now saying, "You've been crying. Tell me what's the matter." "I'm sorry, Signorina. It's nothing. I'm sorry. I'll finish here and leave you." "No, don't leave me. Come sit here beside me and tell me what's wrong." I trudged over to the bed and settled down beside Gabriella, who had sat up on the side of the bed, her peignoir barely covering her curvaceous young, pampered body. My dejection was obvious; my head and eyes were downcast, and my chest sank toward my knees. "It's about my grandfather, isn't it?" Gabriella asked with an edge of exasperation in her voice. "And that stranger he brought home last night." "Yes, Signorina," I managed to mumble. "I went in to open the Conte's room this morning, and the stranger was there—in your father's bed." "Pig!" Gabriella spit out. "All of the Ghiberti men are pigs. They think Tuscan nobles can do whatever they want, can hurt whoever they please. Here, let me comfort you. Poor, dear Rosella." She encircled me in her arms and stroked my head. We were rocking back and forth, and I felt safe and warm. In truth, I was feeling very warm. She was kissing the side of my head, and her loose-flowing breasts were rubbing against my arm. I could feel the taut rosebud nipples of her breasts, and, as memories of our experimentation as young women came back to me, I felt my juices begin to flow in the crevice between my thighs. She was murmuring and humming in low tones to me now, comforting me. Her lips moved to my cheek and then to my swollen eyelids, her tongue licking away my tears. And then, before either of us were aware of having crossed the chasm, her lips were on mine, opening my lips with hers and putting our tongues into play. The taste of her was still as sweet as I had remembered. I shuddered at her touch and at the wetness I felt in my secret place. I broke from the kiss, breathless, and fought to regain control of myself. "No, Signorina. We mustn't. Your grandfather. . ." "Screw my grandfather and all of the Ghiberti men," Gabriella exclaimed with a rich, challenging laugh. "They think nothing of their women. Well, whatever is good for that old goat is good for us as well." She rose from the bed, threw open her peignoir, and turned to me. She was unbuttoning my frock from the neck to the hem and pulling it from my body. I was only in my bra, panties, and garter belt holding up my gauzy white cotton stockings now. She took my head between her hands and buried my face between her breasts, throwing her head back and giving a throaty laugh. Her breasts were fuller, firmer, yet more pliant and milky, than they had been when we'd been exploring girls. I gasped at how beautiful and soft they were and couldn't keep myself from covering them with kisses and sucking on her rosy, erect nipples as she reached behind me and unfastened my bra. She lifted my chin from her breasts, and we went into a long, lingering, searching kiss as her hands covered my now-free breasts and rolled and pinched my nipples to erection. I knew we should stop, that there would be hell to pay—mostly for me, the servant—if the Conte walked in and discovered us like this. But I was defenseless before Gabriella, who was so satisfying as a young girl, but who had turned into a raving, ripe beauty as a young woman. And how could I stop her anyway? She was a Ghiberti and I was a mere servant in the archaic, rigid Tuscan social structure. My lot was to provide the service my masters and mistresses demanded of me. At least this was the most pleasant of services. Gabriella was pulling at my panties now. I was ashamed at the notion that she would see how wet they were, but when she had stripped them off me, she raised them to her face and sniffed in the essence of my womanhood. She gave me a languid, broad smile and then kissed me deeply on the lips again, clearly pleased with the woman I had developed into. She came back on the bed, but rather than sitting beside me, she moved to behind me, her breasts pressed into my shoulder blades and her legs enclosing my hips between her thighs. I felt the silky hair of her pubic V against the small of my back, and I was surprised to find that she was as wet against my tender skin as I had become. She was cupping my breasts in her hands, as if she were judging melons in the market. One hand then came up and guided my chin so that my head turned to her face and my lips found hers again. As that hand returned to my breast, the other one glided down across my belly and cupped my mound. I sighed deeply as her searching fingers entered me and found my hooded clit. I shuddered as her fingers pushed the hood aside and found and began to stroke and rub the treasure spot. I was flowing freely now. Her hand briefly left my crevice and spread my legs wider, placing my thighs over hers, and then the searching fingers were back with a vengeance. She had me moaning and writhing within her embrace as her fingers did magic things to my secret spot. The Conte had never excited me like this; no one had aroused me like this. Our earlier girlhood experimentation had been nothing compared to this. Her hand left me again, and I saw it moving in the folds of the coverlet of her bed. I gasped when I saw her extract a phallic-shaped vibrator from the folds and move the tip of it to the lips between my thighs. I weakly tried to struggle away from her then, but her lips had full possession of mine, and I was a captive of her body as well when I began to feel the vibrations on my clit. All of my attention and feeling went to that very private love button and the lustful music the tool was playing there, a concentration of sensual sensation that no man's cock ever had, or, I thought, ever could focus and intensify there. I repeatedly cried out in ecstasy as Gabriella held the vibrator to my clit, squeezed my breast tightly, and whispered endearments in my ear. After a short time, the vibrator tip moved away from my secret spot, to be replaced by the pressure of a slick rotating finger, and the tip moved slightly southward, positioned just inside my vagina. And then it was slowly, but relentlessly moving inside me. The vibrating phallus was pushing inside me, sending waves and waves of pleasure through me, making the very center of me undulate and scream out my surrender to the invading body. I pulled myself from Gabriella's lips and arched my back, with my head resting between her ample breasts, as I felt spasm after spasm of glorious multiple orgasms coursing through my body and felt my juices flowing from me in a strong, steady stream. "And does the Conte do this for you?" Gabriella was whispering in my ear. "Can he make you spasm and flow like this? Is his old cock the equal of this tool of mine? Or do you have, perhaps, a young stud of a lover whose cock does this for you?" "No, no, a thousand times no," I moaned back to her. "Then let the stranger in grandfather's bed have him for the short time it lasts. Come, show me how liberated you feel," she said, and she pulled away from me and scooted up on the bed, her head on the pillow, and me sitting below her until she pulled my face down to the soft, wet mound between her thighs and set me to searching and servicing the glowing, sweet-smelling warmth of her with my lips and tongue. I was not a fool. This wasn't liberation. This was the exchange of one servitude for another. But a very pleasant servitude it was. Gabriella moaned and stroked my hair with a hand and rocked her pelvis back and forth against my face as the strong rays of the Tuscan morning spilled through the window and bathed us in light and warmth. Tuscan Twilight Ch. 03 Ch 3: Revolt I looked up at the Tuscan villa perched at the top of the grape vine-clad hill as I drove up from the harbor town of Marina de Massa. I was a true son of Tuscany and had returned here after my education in Paris and Florence, drawn by visions just as this—the ancient Villa Montebella, seat of the Tuscan Ghibertis for centuries, basking in the September Italian morning sun, master of all that fell under its shadow on the slopes tumbling down to the turquoise-blue Mediterranean waters of the Ligurian Sea. I was both exhilarated at the prospect of coming up to the villa today to paint and in great trepidation, caught between my worship of—and lust for—the Conte's granddaughter, Gabriella, and the Conte's potential wrath in the face of my audacity. It didn't matter to the Ghibertis that I was an accomplished portraitist already. I was a son of the Tuscany peasantry, necessary, in a servile sense, to the Ghibertis of the world but hardly worth their notice. I was cursed not to be able to curb my pursuit of Gabriella—for my obsession about the silky triangle the raven beauty kept under those skirts of hers—even knowing that any advances I made would be my undoing in Tuscany. Still, I hadn't been able to resist bringing my little present for Gabriella, the chocolates I knew she loved, the very expensive Leonides chocolates imported all the way from Belgium. When I reached the forecourt of the villa, I parked my old Fiat as unobtrusively to the side as I could and approached the gigantic double wooden doors into the villa's entrance hall. The door was promptly answered by that little minx of a housemaid, Rosella, whose ample charms I had enjoyed on occasion before the Conte had claimed her as his exclusive property. She gave me a red-faced look that hinted at having been very naughty and being afraid I'd find her out, bobbed her head, and held the door open to where I could see the pandemonium that had been set forth beside the villa's ornate marble stairs to the upper reaches of the small palace. Gabriella was in full rail at her younger brother, Paulo, who had taken leave of his seminary studies in Rome to help with the harvest of the family's grape harvest. Gabriella was a ravishing vixen when she was angry, and she was certainly at her peak this morning. Paulo was just standing there, taking her tantrum calmly, as she tattooed the floor with her pretty little feet, let her luxurious black hair fly around her head, and pounded her small fists on a terribly vulnerable Louis the Sixteenth chest leaning precariously against the staircase. The vixen broke whatever loud complaining she was doing as soon as she realized someone had arrived at the door, turned toward me with flashing eyes, and screamed her welcome. "Giovanni! And what the hell are you doing here so early in the morning?" I nearly melted on the spot. She was so lovely and enticing. I loved her to death, and wanted ever so much to get inside her panties. I lifted my love offering, the Leonides chocolates, in front of me in homage to her. She just stood there, fists on hips, chin jutting out, and foot tapping angrily on the marble floor. I turned to Rosella, thinking perhaps that she might take the chocolates and deliver them across the cavernous hallway to her mistress, but Rosella just gave me a withering look and turned and left the room. I turned my attention back to Gabriella and to her brother, Paulo, who was shrinking away from us behind Gabriella's voluptuous figure. "Well?" Gabriella challenged me again. "As if we didn't have more than enough to endure already, do we have to have the entire peasantry of Marina de Massa tromping up here to gloat? I said, what are you doing here, Giovanna?" I wasn't listening to a word she was saying, really, which probably was fortunate, because I would have had no idea what she was talking about. "The sitting," I managed to stammer. "Your grandfather, the Conte's, portrait. We have a sitting scheduled for this morning." "I'm afraid the Conte won't be able to sit for some time," a cool voice, in quite foreign Italian wafted down from the staircase. We all looked up and saw, caught in the rays of the Tuscan sun streaming through the Palladian window above the entry doors, a handsome, well-built blond man in linen trousers and a billowy white, gauzy shirt open almost down to his navel. I saw Gabriella's nostrils flare in anger and heard a gasp from Paulo as they looked up at the foreign stranger, who I'd never seen in the region before, let alone on the staircase up to the private apartments of the Ghibertis. "The Conte told me to tell you that he is indisposed this morning. I'm afraid he won't be up to whatever morning activities he had planned. And you are?" He directed this question to me, and I got the impression that he was closely appraising me, and in ways I found a bit uncomfortable. "I am Giovanni," I stammered out. "I am painting the Conte's portrait." "Ah yes, I saw it up in Luciano's bedroom," the stranger answered in his cool terms. "Luciano!" Gabriella spat out in disgust, and I could well feel the wounding of the stranger's use of the Conte's personal name. No one in this region under the age of sixty would have used the Conte's personal name so familiarly. But the stranger ignored Gabriella's outburst and turned to me and continued in a level voice. "I think your portrait is quite fine, Giovanni. I am Dakota, Luciano's new, but very close American friend. I'll be staying here for a few days and enjoying the grape harvest here in Tuscany." Gabriella snorted again. "And you, of course, are the Conte's granddaughter, Gabriella," the stranger said as he turned to the vixen. "You are just as Luciano described to me. And you," he went on to say as he turned now toward Paulo, "Must be the grandson who is studying in Rome to be the pope." "I am studying for the priesthood, yes. I'm Paulo," Gabriella's brother answered in a weak voice. And I could see now that Paulo had been mesmerized by the American. Although nearly nineteen, Paulo had always appeared young, fragile, and impressionable for his age. This despite how all of the young girls in the region swooned over his statue-perfect Mediterranean looks. "Well, hello, Paulo," the American stranger said with honeyed tones and with a broad smile. "Luciano tells me you have come to help with the harvest and that you get right in there in working with the grapes. I would like to see how that's done. Perhaps that sweet young girl who was here a moment ago might put together something we can eat in the fields and you'll show me how to harvest grapes this morning." "Paulo!" Gabriella said sharply. But Paulo ignored her. "Certainly, Signore—Dakota—I would be honored to do so." Gabriella gave first the American, and then Paulo, a glare that I was afraid might melt our marble surroundings and then, shifting gears completely and eerily, turned a dazzling smile on me. "If my grandfather can't sit for you today, Giovanni, perhaps I will do. Would you like for me to pose for you, say, out in the pavilion by the pond?" Perhaps the marble wasn't melting, but I certainly was. Gabriella pose for me? This was just too wonderful to contemplate. "Yes, yes, certainly, Signorina Gabriella," I was babbling. I also was still holding out that box of chocolates. "Oh, chocolates for me?" Gabriella asked in a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth voice, suddenly acknowledging that I'd been offering the chocolates to her during this entire uncomfortable scene. "How thoughtful, but just don't stand there gawking, Giovanni. Take them on out to the pavilion and I'll go slip into something appropriate for a portrait." And, with a glare at both Paulo and the American, in turn, she marched up the stairs past the American, who gave her an amused, assessing stare as she withdrew. He then turned and looked intensely down at Paulo. I have no idea what happened after that, because I was fumbling my way out of the villa's entrance, en route to my Fiat, and planning just what paints I would need for this great adventure. How I wished Gabriella had told me what colors she'd be wearing. When Gabriella appeared in the dappled sunlight of the pavilion doorway at last, it wasn't as significant what colors she was wearing as that she wasn't wearing much of anything at all. She was loosely clothed in only a white, diaphanous robe of some sort that barely hid the fact that everything beneath it was the rich, creamy flesh of the voluptuous beauty. I sat on my stool by the easel, agape, as Gabriella glided over to the backless rattan sofa on the back wall of the pavilion and stretched out full length on the divan, with pillows supporting her torso at an angle that pushed her ample breasts out. The gown parted and fell beneath one of her breasts. She was pointing a very nice rosebud of a nipple at me. I gasped and tried not to drop the brush that I was preparing for the paint. "Signorina Gabriella!" I exclaimed in a strangled voice. "Don't you like my tit, Giovanni?" Gabriella asked in a husky voice. "Rosella tells me you are a good tit man. And here, see, I have two, a matched pair." And she revealed that she did, indeed, have a nicely paired set, as she drew the gown away from her other breast and pointed that hard, rosy nipple at me too. I took notice; my trembling hands took notice; my engorging cock, in particular, took notice. "But, Signorina Gabriella," I repeated, being very much the loss for words and barely able to keep myself from falling on and feasting on her. "Or perhaps you are more a cunt man," the little vixen sweetly said, as she flipped the gown back to reveal a patch of silky, curly black hair covering the V of her mound between plump, milky-white thighs. "Rosella tells me that you are an even better swordsman than a tit man. Aren't you just aching to plunge your rapier into this tight sheath?" "Oh God, Gabriella, don't tease me like this," I moaned. "Your grandfather, the Conte, would dismember me if I dared to . . . he has strictly forbidden . . ." "Are you a lusty, full-blown son of Tuscany, or a mouse, Giovanni?" Gabriella spat back at me. "I am fully aware of my grandfather's wants. But screw my grandfather. Screw all of the Ghiberti men and their double standards and philandering ways. I want your cock inside me; I want to writhe under you until I scream for mercy, your cock pinning me down to my backbone against this divan. What do you want? Are you a Tuscan man or—or an American stranger? Come fuck me like an Italian man would if you want me." I sat there, in shock, my trembling hand still softening up the silky bristles of the sable paint brush, as if none of this was happening and I was just preparing for a normal portrait sitting. Gabriella's eyes went to my brush, and she laughed a throaty laugh, edged with her frustrated anger. "Perhaps that brush in your hand is more interested in me than that piece of meat between your legs. You pose as a creative artist, Giovanni, but you are impotent before me. You are just like the rest of them." The anger rose in me now. I lacked creativity and passion? I'd show her. I looked wildly about me, and my gaze fell on the box of Leonides chocolates that I'd opened and positioned near the divan so that Gabriella would have something to nibble on as I sketched out the foundation for a portrait. But I had laid them in the sun, and I saw now that they were melting badly. Creativity and passion was what she wanted? She flinched defensively and shrank from me, probably fearing I was going to lash out at her, as I sprang from the stool by the easel and went for the box of chocolates. I raised the box in one hand, holding it like it was an artist's palette, and plunged the tip of the sable brush into the center of the box, swirling it around and engorging the hair of the brush with melted chocolate. Then I went on my knees before the reclining Gabriella and started to swirl the brush around her pouting nipples. Gabriella looked shocked, then surprised, and then a lascivious glaze crossed her eyes and she grinned at me and laughed a throaty laugh. She pulled the gown all the way off her body, arched her back, and thrust out her breasts. I swirled the brush furiously around her breasts, returning often to the melted box of chocolates for more color. And when I was finished there, the brush moved down her heaving belly. As I neared paradise, Gabriella opened her legs wide to me. I covered the lips of her vagina heavily with rich chocolate and then the brush worked its way through her inner folds and swirled around on her clit. She was moaning and sighing deeply for me now. The last of the chocolate mingled with the sweet juices she was producing, as the brush went deep into her. The chocolate was spent, and the brush now was replaced with my lips and tongue, as I gorged on chocolate from her breasts down to flowing chocolate, thinned with Gabriella's juices, between her luscious thighs. She screamed out in passion as my lips and tongue found her clit and brought her to the first of her orgasms. I let her rest then, but only briefly, as I rose from her and stripped off my clothes. My cock wanted her badly, and, with a laugh, she reached out for it with both hands and guided me into her. She held the head of it briefly to her clit and rubbed the two sensitive areas together, encircling us both with waves of sensuous pleasure. And then she turned the head of the cock toward the source of her chocolate-laced juices, and I plunged into her and rode her hard to her second, and my first, orgasm. When I had ejaculated deeply inside her, I lay on top of her, both of us panting heavily and cooling down in rhythm. After a time, I moved as if to pull out of her and rise and see what we could recover from this situation, when she gave a deep-throated, almost animalistic laugh and rolled us both. She was on top of me now, in control, as she seemed to want to be. And now she was like a wild woman. My cock regained its interest and attention and was enjoying the ride, with me now the fucked and Gabriella the fucker. I had never seen Gabriella this joyful or animated before. She was making a statement, one of her determination to live life on her own terms and not to be second-classed or subjugated by anyone. I just laid back and let her have her way with me; I liked this form of Gabriella. I wasn't of the Tuscany nobility. I wasn't a Ghiberti. I'd be happy to have her on any terms she specified. Gabriella was in another world all her own now. Taking her pleasure with me, fully in control. A flash of apprehension went through me as I thought I heard someone on the path, nearing the pavilion. But Gabriella was either too preoccupied with her fucking of me completely on her terms or she just didn't care, because she just went on riding me and riding me and riding me. And it felt so glorious that I didn't care either. Tuscan Twilight Ch. 04 Chapter 4: In the Son I gloried in the September sun raying down on the terraced vineyards of Tuscany, as I followed Paulo, the grandson of the owner of Villa Montebella, the Conte de Ghiberti, into the rows of wooden stakes supporting luscious green leaves and vines interspersed with moist clumps of purple and green grapes nearly bursting with rich juices. Paulo stopped on the edge of a rock-walled terrace where we could look down across the harbor hamlet of Marina de Massa to the calm Mediterranean waters of the Ligurian Sea. It was a perfect morning, and I had the perfect guide beside me to show me the fundamentals of a grape harvest. If he had been around in Michelangelo's day, he would have been the model for the statue of David. For all I knew, one of the youth's ancestors had been the model. He was small, thin, and lithe, appearing several years younger than the age his grandfather had told me he was. His body was perfectly shaped, and his features were achingly handsome, almost of feminine beauty. His hair was dark and curly, and his fingers and the toes I could see clinging to his sandals were long and sensuous, a promise of length in other features as well. He wore only loose cotton trousers, having come to the fields to put in a hardworking day. The skin of his body, tightly stretched on his musculature, was an olive brown, evidencing the many hours he spent in the sun on these hilly slopes and belying what took up his time most of the year. His grandfather had told me that the young man was dedicated to the church, that the Ghibertis descended from popes and perpetually had at least one member of the family located close to the pontiff's throne in the Vatican. Having seen the grandson now, I thought that this was a sad waste of good manflesh. Paulo turned to me and grinned, all pearly white teeth and sensuous lips, showing me in that one gesture just how much he loved these Tuscan hills and their bounty of rich grapes. He gestured for me to follow him, and I watched the motion of his lithe body as I followed him into the vineyard terraces. It hit me that Paulo had been in perpetual motion since the first time I had seen him standing in the morning light coming through the Palladian window in the marbled front hall of the Villa Montebella. Even when he was standing still, his torso was languidly moving. He could have been a dancer. Better a dancer than a priest, I thought a little bitterly. I loved watching him move. But as much as I ached in my groin in observing his fluidity, I also ached to put him at rest, to give him so much of what I thought he needed that his body would be calm and silent, would not have to be in perpetual motion, as if it was trying to escape from some unavoidable reality. I had been with his grandfather only briefly, but I had gotten the same sense of a life of regret and velvet-walled imprisonment from him as well. When Paulo halted, deep down the corridors of the grapevine support fences, I stripped off the gauzy white shirt that had loosely covered my torso, and we worked hard, side by side, for nearly an hour. Paulo showing me which grapes were begging to be plucked and how to harvest them without bruising their tender skins. And all the time his torso was in perpetual motion, moving like a master dancer. The sun hadn't reached its zenith when Paulo called for a respite. He fanned out a blanket on the ground under a tree, where a section of the vineyard made way for an olive orchard, and began unpacking a basket that Rosella, back at the villa, had made up for us. There were several bottles of wine, uncorked, ready for tasting. With a merry laugh, Paulo took one of these and handed me the other one. He leaned against a tree and saluted me with the bottle before drinking directly from it in a long gulp. He looked entirely too young to be taking deep swigs from a wine bottle, I thought. Even leaning against the tree, his body was in languid motion. I saluted him back and took a long drink from the bottle he'd given me. The wine was refreshing and smooth, with a slight kick to it at the end—just the thing to top an hour of hard work in the fields. Paulo was grinning at me, swaying his torso, and I ached for him. But he looked oh so young. I couldn't help myself. "Just how old are you, Paulo?" I asked in a scratchy voice, having difficulty broaching the subject. "Old enough, Signore Dakota," Paul said and flashed me that beautiful smile again. "Old enough?" I asked. "Yes, old enough in your country, in America, by several months. And old enough here in Tuscany at any age." "You know what I was asking?" I asked incredulously. "And why?" "Of course, Dakota. I saw it in your eyes on the stairs back at the villa. If you had not asked to come to the fields with me, I would have asked you to come myself. I know what you and grandfather were doing last night. I brought you to a section of the fields where no one else will be coming today." "Come away from that tree, Paulo," I said huskily. "Come over here to me." "It's cool here under the tree, Dakota," he answered, asserting himself, showing me some backbone. "I am hot; I need to be cooled down." "You need to be cooled down?" I responded. And then, impulsively, I walked over to him and upended the wine bottle in front of his face, watching the dark red fluid cascading down his lithe, undulating torso and staining his cotton trousers and plastering them to his pelvis. I could see that it was true about long sensuous fingers and toes. He had a long cock curled up in that basket of his, the front of his trousers now translucent thanks to the flowing red wine. At first Paulo looked shocked, and then he laughed merrily and upended his own bottle of wine above my much broader, more heavily muscled chest. I pushed him roughly against the olive tree where its two main branches split and brutally attacked his full-bodied lips with mine. He answered my kiss, showing me that he knew a thing or two about the technique himself. I pulled away in surprise. "Your grandfather told me you'd already been dedicated to the church," I said. "This is Italy," the young man answered me with his own special laugh. "We do more in the seminaries here than study the books and practice the calligraphy." My mouth hungrily went to his chest and found his wine-cooled nipples. A hand went to his crotch and almost lifted his lithe little body off the ground as I cupped his long, unfolding dick in my searching hands. I was stripping his trousers off his legs as my tongue and lips made their wine-tasting journey down his chest and belly, and he was exposed and ready for me when my mouth reached his long, thin rod. He leaned back into the crook of the olive tree, his torso still in swaying motion, and sighed and moaned for me, as I took possession of his cock and sucked him to ejaculation. When I stood, he started to lick the wine off my chest and belly as well, intending to do for me what I'd done for him, but I wanted to prolong the experience. I took him by the hand and led him over to the spread blanket, warming in the olive tree-branch dappled sunlight of the strong Tuscan sun. I stripped off my wet pants, hearing the intake of his breath when he saw how well-endowed I was, and sat down on the blanket, my legs stretched out in front of me. I then pulled him down close beside me. His hip was next to mine, but I pulled his torso over, across my chest, to where his shoulder blades nestled against my chest and the curly black hair on top of his head was tickling me under my chin. I leaned over and plucked a long strand of oat grass that had found life between the rows of the vine stands. I encircled his waist with one arm, my palm fanned out on his lower belly, and, with the other hand, I took the long, thick strand of grass and ran it across Paulo's chest and thighs and cock and balls. The perpetual undulating motion of his torso and legs matched the tracings of the grass on his beautiful little body, and, at length, with deep sighs, he turned his face to me and we kissed deeply, our tongues finding each other, our sweet, wine-infused juices joining together. While we kissed, I moved one of his thighs up until it was on top of mine. The nearness of him was intoxicating, and the motion of his body against the strand of grass was mesmerizing. I pulled him farther up into my lap until he was on top of me, sitting in my lap. My long, hard, thick cock was running up the small of his back, telling him precisely what I wanted and that I couldn't wait much longer before I got it. His back was in languid motion as well, so he was making love to my cock, rubbing the small of his back across it. He was making humming noises, and his body was trembling as well as moving. I knew that he wanted me too. He raised his arm around the back of my neck, bringing my lips back to his. We kissed tenderly, and then he looked deeply into my eyes. "Now? Will you fuck me now? Please." He asked. "You need not worry. I'm not as young and inexperienced as you might think." "Yes, now," I said huskily. Paulo drew his calves up under his thighs then, keeping my pelvis between them. He reached behind him and found my cock, which was a little hard to miss, and then raised his hips up, with his weight on his knees, and just backed his asshole onto my cock. Surprisingly, he had no problem at entry, even though I was quite large and thick, and I glided all the way in to the hilt. Then, he just started his hips in an undulating rhythm above me, stroking in and out above me, alternating with rotations of his hips, fucking himself on my throbbing cock. The sensation was phenomenal. I was mining him deep, and his ass canal walls, like his torso, were in perpetual motion, making love to my cock in wave after wave of caressing as it churned inside him. I was loving this, but I wanted to still his body, wanted to feel him at peace. I slowly rolled him so that he was belly down on the blanket, and I was covering him completely from above, my thighs holding his close between them, my nipples gouging into his shoulder blades, my arms stretched on top of his, my fingers entwined with his, my pelvis churning around on his plump butt cheeks. His torso quieted down, stopped its perpetual motion, but his hips were still in motion, a little elevated and rotating in countermotion to my downward stroking deep inside him, in the son of Tuscany, with my pulsating cock. The blanket had bunch up so that our pelvises were directly atop the rich Italian soil of the hillside. Paulo's hard dick was stroking along the surface of the mossy grass, fucking the fertile earth of Tuscany. I could feel myself ready to cum. I pulled my cock out so that the head was just beyond the ring near the opening to his asshole, and I found his prostrate with the tip of the head and rubbed back and forth. He was moaning and groaning especially loud now, and I felt him tense and shoot his load in the grass, spreading Ghiberti semen on the ancient Tuscan land of the noble Ghibertis, blessing the grape harvest in a ritual that just might have been part of tradition in centuries past. I ground his pelvis into the grass then, with a strong deep thrust of my cock down into the center of him, where I injected spouting after spouting of good old rejuvenating American semen into the ass of the fine old Ghiberti line, doing a little blessing of the harvest myself. I held him pinned to the ground with my long, thick stake, waiting and hoping. He gave a long, lingering sigh, and I felt all of the tension drain out of him, leaving him at complete peace. But with the life and responsibilities he faced, I had no idea how much time for peace I'd given him. The previous day his grandfather had told me of an American just like me who had given him peace when he was not much older than Paulo was, but that this peace had been short-lived, leaving the Conte only with bittersweet memories. Perhaps I had done Paulo no favors today. Tuscan Twilight Ch. 05 Chapter 5: Winging Away Ohhh, Rosella was right about Giovanni. He has a strong and long-lasting cock. I am thinking of how good this feels, how wonderful it is to be in control and to have a man doing my bidding for a change—being of some use to me without taking all of the time—as I rock back and forth on Giovanni's rock-hard member on the pavilion divan. I was just toying with him at first, when I took him into the garden of the Villa Montebella to paint my portrait when the old man was too indisposed for his own sitting with the portraitist this morning. I meant to seduce him and then to rebuff him as soon as he was really hot and bothered. I am mad at grandfather, the Conte; I am mad at all of the controlling, philandering Ghiberti men. Well, maybe all except for Vincenti, off doing his business in Rome. My older brother has promised that I can go to Rome too when I no longer am of use to grandfather and have an allowance to do whatever I want to do. I want to ride long plump cocks like this one of Giovanni's and to have handsome men and beautiful women sucking at my clit. But when will that be? The old man just lives on forever, controlling all of our lives, treating me the same way Ghiberti men were treating their women in Tuscany two hundred years ago—like possessions. I lean my head down from where I am astride Giovanni's hips, pumping up and down and back and forth on him, and he gazes adoringly at me with those wounded fawn eyes of his and opens his lips to receive a kiss, but I swoop lower and attach my teeth to one of his taut nipples. "Ayieee," he exclaims in surprise and pain. But although he flinches, he doesn't try to withdraw from me. "Does that hurt, dear Giovanni?" I ask mockingly, as I let loose and turn my eyes up to his. His eyes show his pain, but more than that, they show his love and devotion to me. I wonder what it will take to turn him into yet another Tuscan man pig. Surely if I give any sign of relinquishing control to him, he will become yet another Tuscan man. "If you don't like this, I can leave you now, Giovanni." "No, no, please, Gabriella. This is heaven. You are like velvet inside, so sweet and tight." So unlike my grandfather I think. And then, when I think of the American stranger and my grandfather together last night with all of the shackles the old Conte imposes on me, I have a flash of anger and descend on Giovanni's other nipple. I draw blood this time, but he makes no sound. There's just an increase in his heavy breathing beyond the exertion he'd been showing by moving his throbbing cock inside me. He makes me very wet, and that tonguing he gave my lips and clit below was heavenly. Giovanni has potential. When I tried to emasculate him for letting my grandfather's threats override his burning desire for me despite my seduction here in the pavilion, he flared and became inventive, showing me that I mattered more to him than Tuscan tradition and power. He took his sable-haired brush and a box of melted chocolates and painted my breasts and belly and cunt—and then he followed the chocolate with his tongue and lips. Very enjoyable. He'd given me two orgasms already, when most Tuscan men would not have bothered whether I'd had even one as long as their dicks spouted and were satisfied. Yes, perhaps a good man, Giovanni. I dip down to him again and feel him tense under me, not knowing where I will attack next. But I have mercy, at least at first, and this time apply my lips to his. We kiss deeply. But slowly I sense him asserting himself, struggling for control. I bite his lip to show him he's gone too far—this tryst is all about me asserting control over my life in a dismal situation. He pulls away and yelps, but when I come to him with my lips again, he willingly opens to me and lets me dictate the kiss, having learned what I will tolerate. I sit back up in the saddle and pump him hard. He will cum shortly. But I want my third orgasm before he does. I reach back with one of my hands and find his balls. I bunch them together with my fist and twist. His eyes bug out and his mouth forms a silent scream. He knows not to do more than that, however. He may be trainable. The only trainable Tuscan man. I see concern registered in his eyes, but it's not for anything I am doing to him. He tells me he thinks he hears someone coming down the path toward the pavilion. It might be my grandfather, the Conte. I don't care, however. Let the old man find us thus. Maybe that's what is needed for him to release me and to let me have a life of my own in Rome. Giovanni's face takes on a surprised look now, and he's looking intently beyond my shoulder. I feel a hard-muscled naked body saddling up behind me, obviously a man from what I feel pushing up my spine. A hugely endowed man. Arms come around my chest, and hands are cupping my breasts and squeezing hard. I cannot help but cry out. I turn my head. It's the well-built blond American stranger who fucked my grandfather in his chamber all night long last night, so much so that the old man was unable to appear this morning. The American had gone to the fields with my younger brother, Paulo, this morning and no doubt had just returned from fucking him in the grape arbors as well. I saw the lust in Paulo's eyes for this man. I suppose he now thinks it's my turn. A hand comes up, and he grabs me by the chin and holds my face turned toward him. His thick, sensuous lips attack mine. He pushes my lips apart and fills my mouth with his tongue. He is very good and very, very desirable. But he is a pig of a man, just like my grandfather and all his Tuscan breed. I bite him on the tongue. He pulls away from me and just laughs and then he kisses me brutally and bites my lip. My flow increases. My body wants this man. But I cannot give in now. He pushes me down onto Giovanni, crushing my breasts against Giovanni's chest. I wonder what he intends, until I feel his cheek against mine. He's kissing Giovanni on the mouth, and Giovanni is responding to him. Giovanni's hands come, first to cup, the flowing blond hair of the stranger as they kiss, and then behind my back to the American's beating breast. Giovanni's a pig too. I must escape Tuscany altogether. The blond American's hands come between my chest and Giovanni's, and he's rubbing my nipples against Giovanni's, sending little electric shocks through my body. I can tell Giovanni is also affected, as his cock increases in length inside me. The American's long, thick cock is pushing at me from behind. I gather my strength and push up hard, pulling the American's mouth away from Giovanni's and regaining position in the saddle. It angers me that Giovanni's cock has gained more strength. I know he's gained it from the American, not from me. The American is squeezing my breasts hard again, and roughly rubbing his thumbs on my nipples. He has his lips and teeth in the hollow of my neck and is giving me a hard sucking kiss there. I hear the bell start. The bell in the villa's tower is ringing. My heart soars and takes wings, wings that will take me away from Tuscany forever. I look down at Giovanni and see that he understands what the ringing of the bell means as well, and he has a contented look on his face, his fear of reprisal subsiding. His cock becomes more active; he is pushing up with it when I push down on it. He is on the edge of wresting control whenever it seems possible. So, Giovanni is a Tuscan man underneath it all as well. I will not leave him with regret. The American doesn't seem to be noticing. He's still kneading my breasts, feeding at my neck, and rubbing his hard cock up and down the small of my back. I start to relax now. The fighting is over. I've won. The American senses the change and assumes that he has seduced me with his undeniably ample charms, that I'm now ripe for the picking. He's so cocky. He's used to fucking anyone he wants to fuck. But at least he recognizes the fight that I've put up and gives that some sort of grudging respect. His lips come up to my ear, and he speaks to me in a whisper. "Permission to enter, Signorina Gabriella? You will enjoy me, as I'm sure I will enjoy you." I examine his tone, gauging whether he's mocking me, but I don't think he is. I think he's saluting me, giving me a status in a relationship between and man and a woman that the old male guard of Tuscany will not give. "Yes, why not?" I respond in a low, throaty voice. He kisses me deeply again, this time in gratitude. And I let him think he's won. He takes his hands from my breast and places them on my shoulder blades and presses me once again into Giovanni's chest. But this time he does so slowly and gently, and I respond in feigned submission. I feel his bulbous cock head at my puckering rear entry, and then he's in me, slowly pushing his way in to the hilt. I have two men in me now, Giovanni in my cunt and the blond American, Dakota, in my ass. Giovanni's cock is big, but the American's is longer and thicker. We begin fucking again, the three of us, and this time I do so joyously. Dakota may have fucked the Ghiberti men in residence, first my grandfather, the Conte, and then my young, impressionable brother, Paulo, but he is fucking me last. He saved me for last—and he sought my permission before he entered me. I can tell that he's loving me, that he's lost in my charms and my own abilities. And he thinks he has won me over and that I'm giving him such a good fuck because I have given myself to him. But that's not true. I've maintained control. I am celebrating my liberation. Now my grandfather will never have him again. The tolling of the bell has continued, and Dakota finally has the presence of mind to ask me what it signifies. "The bell only rings at the passing of an era in the Ghiberti family, I answer triumphantly. The Conte is dead. My older brother, Vincenti is now the Conte." I feel a tremble and a sense of sadness go through the American's body, and I respect him for this. But as for me. This has given me wings to fly from Tuscany and into the world.