A gay story: 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.