by Zack
At the expansive doorway, a dark-skinned man greeted Mitchener deferentially. Mike immediately thought of him as a Sicilian Mafioso, with an unsmiling face straight out of a Pier Paolo Pasolini movie, or perhaps The Godfather. He led them through a great marbled hall between waiters barely clad in flimsy Greek-style chitons, who passed to and fro bearing trays laden with glasses full or empty.
… suicide is painless / It brings so many changes / And I can take or leave them if I please…
Heeding Jeff’s warning, Mike tried to sail in Mitchener’s wake and keep out of sight behind him as the director followed the mobster flunky through open French windows on to a wide and crowded patio. To no avail. From haloes of overlapping golden light set against the deep blue of encroaching night, a bulky figure resembling an old tea clipper under full sail in Technicolor glided into view. Mitchener stepped aside to show off Mike to Franco Fantini. The Italian noble’s little button-eyes fell on Mike, even as the man altered course to collide with Kennith Mitchener. The host enveloped him in a voluminous synthesis of flaring reds in different hues. The loose ancient Roman dress did nothing to hide the huge mass of the man. Fantini was indeed gross to the point it was hard to determine his age. His shining face so puffed over his bones it mitigated any wrinkles. A cap of gray hair, which looked sprayed on in its evenness, took on an unhealthy yellow cast from the outdoor lighting. Dark piggy eyes set close together fixed a gimlet stare on Mike and efficiently scalpeled away every item of his clothing.
As he took Mike’s hand in his own clammy and grasping one, he muttered some sibilant Italian greeting, and his tongue flickered left and right between blubbery lips. The man repelled Mike, who became aware that Angle was desperately trying to hide behind his back.
The slob let Mike’s hand go and swayed sideways. His eyes glittered greedily as he reached to pull Angle out from behind Mike. “Ah, Angelo, mio piccolo Angelo. Così bello vederti di nuovo nella mia umile dimora. Forse ci sarà tempo per rinnovare la nostra conoscenza ... piacevole.”
Mike didn’t need a translation to understand the sinister implication which dripped from the man’s fat lips, or to understand the little stagehand’s terror at hearing the words.
A brave man once requested me / To answer questions that are key / Is it to be or not to be / And I replied oh why ask me…
The mournful lyrics of Suicide Is Painless drifted out from the palace as Fantini, with a final lingering slobber at Mike, took Kennith Mitchener by the arm and led him away toward a cluster of drinking party-goers. Angle grabbed Mike’s elbow.
“Pliss, Mich-ha-el. You not let him touch me. He come later, take me to his… er… seminterrato?” He jabbed a finger back at the house and down.
“Basement?”
“Si, si! Is terrible.”
Mike shuddered in spite of the hot evening. He believed Angle, even though nothing was really clear. Why did James insist on me coming? Surely not to pander to that fat bastard’s evil wants? He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one loose, an action which still gave a thrill in its exotic difference from the typical British box. Angle grabbed the protruding one before Mike could even offer. They lit up, and he allowed the boy to drag him away across the lawn toward a backdrop of trees glowing blue in the reflected glow from water. Perhaps he felt safer away from the malign house. Many guests had gathered around the swimming pool’s marbled perimeter. They sipped at exotic cocktails, talked and laughed, while others swam around in the shimmering turquoise water. Mike grabbed a glass from a passing waiter, who treated him to an embarrassingly intimate smile, and gulped down the contents. Gin and something else, very cold. Soothing after the initial shock. He became aware that those gathered at the pool’s edges were mostly men—well dressed, fashionable, speaking Italian, English, French, and god knows what. Older men had young hunks hanging off their arms, and those swimming were invariably buff.
The water looked beckoning. He hadn’t swum in weeks and missed the exercise. But the thought of being near-nude put him right off—no, make that bollock-naked. Three boys were so, and purposefully pushing off from the bottom to reveal a flash of pubes, willies, and balls above the flume of water. Moving like sharks among the chattering, admiring onlookers, four minder types dressed in tight-fit dark trousers and vests selected a boy here, a young muscle-toned body builder there, and walked them off toward the house. It seemed sinister. Then minutes later, back they came for another selection. The choices all seemed very young to Mike’s eyes. Angle’s grip on his elbow began to hurt whenever one prowled nearby.
“Where are they being taken?”
“B-base-cement.”
“You been down there?”
Angle nodded quickly. “I lucky then, jus’ have stand around undressed. F-Fantini, he has men who…” He made a graphic gesture of screwing something huge into something. “Is hurt very bad. Boys screaming, Fantini is laughing.” Angle shrugged fatalistically. “How he get off, hurting.” His voice fell to a whisper hardly heard above the boisterous crowd. “Some hurt too much.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Next time he put hand on me, I think he kill me too— Oh!”
“Scusi, signore. Inglish?”
Mike froze at the touch on his other arm. One of the sharks. Another from a Pasolini nightmare. In the beam of the flat stare, Mike just nodded.
“Then you please come with me.”
To back up the request, a second goon appeared and fixed Mike with a baleful grin. Mike looked around for Angle, but the boy had fled, and Mike couldn’t find it in his heart to blame him. “I… I’m happy here, guys, really.”
“You come now, please, signore.”
His voice was cold and flat.
“Really, I’m fine—hey!”
They grabbed his elbows viciously and began to drag him across the grass away from the light around the pool.
And that’s when Kennith Mitchener loomed from the darker side of the pool area. He marched up to the two goons, who backed off slightly. “This one’s with me, fellas. Off limits. Capisce?”
The one who first grabbed Mike’s arm bowed slightly with a tight smile and turned away with his colleague.
“Thanks, Mr. Mitchener, I think.” They were the first real words he had spoken to the man. He tried to read the expression, which hovered somewhere between disgust and perplexity.
The director cleared his throat. “Smith, Michael Smith, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, Mike.” He gave an inward shrug. Mitchener knew perfectly well who he was, but cinematic hierarchy demanded the aloof attitude.
“Well, don’t thank me. Keep away from Fantini’s men and out of the house. James told me to bring you, but he said only as eye candy. You understand? He and Fantini do a lot of business, but even James won’t let that Wop faggot lay hands on one of his… boys. Which I gather from his insistence on keeping your cherry from Eytalian dildos, you are.” He pinched his nose and sniffed, nodded once firmly, mission accomplished, and strode off across the lawn attracting camp followers like Haley’s Comet draws ice crystals in its wake through the Solar System. Everyone loves a movie director with a budget.
“Hey, Mich-ha-el. Okay, si?”
Angle pressed his skinny frame against Mike’s side as might a frightened puppy and Mike wrapped an arm around thr boy’s thin shoulders. He caught a flash of something half hidden in Angle’s fist. “What’s that?”
“A bit to smoke?”
Mike grinned, suddenly feeling like Superman. No way was anyone getting their hands on Angle—Angelo. “Follow me and keep close.” They zipped through the front-to-back marble hallway onto the massive forecourt and found their limo on the other side of a towering fountain. In return for sharing the cannabis Angle had scored, the driver granted them sanctuary until Mitchener wished to leave and they could all get out of there. Cuddled in the back, the Italian stagehand offered Mike continual thanks for saving him from Un destino peggiore della morte. The “of death” bit gave Mike the clue to its meaning.
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br /> “I do anything for you, Mich-ha-el. Only to ask. We go Spagna tomorrow night, yes?”
Mike raised his eyebrows.
“The Steps of Spainish. Many young men there. Is famous with tour-easts. You like, I know.”
Mike promised they would indeed visit the Spanish Steps. He’d heard of the location and wanted to see it with his own eyes. He also cast his mind above Angle’s relieved chatter to consider whether to tell Jeff of Mitchener’s role at the party, that perhaps his reputation for holding “orgy parties” was exaggerated, that in fact all he did was organize matters for the real bastard in all this: James Rosen. But then again, if he did, Jeff would realize Mike’s own connection to the Big Man. No, best kept quiet. Sitting there, smoking pot, leaning against an Italian kid in the rear of a massive limo, somewhere in Roma Eterna, that evening at Top Of The Pops had never seemed so far away. All life needed now to kick-start it was a lover, a real lover, an Ideal Friend, partner, companion… someone for whom passion should be a never uncommon commodity, for whom it should be for eternity. Would there ever be another Kevin, another Trevor?
The music had cycled back again to M*A*S*H. As the tall silhouette of Kennith Mitchener finally emerged from the grand doorway of the Palazzo Fantini, Mike caught the drift of sung words…
…suicide is painless / It brings so many changes / And I can take or leave them if I please.
“You shoulda told me, Mike. You any idea what could happen if it ever got out you and I… well?”
Mike hung his head. He couldn’t take the undertone of disappointment in Jeff’s voice. He’d let him down. The very fact that absolutely nothing happened to him at the Fantini orgy had done the rounds, of course, and when Jeff casually mentioned it to Sheila, who knew these things, she told him. Mike should have realized that her loyalty to Jeff would outbid her growing fondness for her British “rosy-cheeked boy.”
“James H. Fucking Rosen don’t take lightly anyone messing with his boys, and the man has the power to make life damned difficult, if not impossible, for someone who gets caught with his dick—”
“Don’t,” Mike ground out quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in any trouble, Jeff. What am I going to do? I can’t take much more of his… affection.”
Jeff relented and placed a hand on Mike’s bowed shoulder. “I dunno. Pity. You and me were getting along nicely. I know you’re a good kid, too good for that bastard. But he’s the guy with the money, so we all jump through hoops of one sort or another. I’m glad mine aren’t like yours. That’s all I can say, apart from… I’m sorry too.”
“Thanks.” Mike huffed something that might have been a rueful laugh. “I’ll live. And I’ll get free of him. Just you see.” As God is my witness…
Fortunately, Jeff had turned to walk away, so he never saw the tears well up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gofer It
Who’s the chicken with Sheila?
Don’t know, Jeff. No doubt we’ll find out.
Must be the new gofer kid. If he’s on the unit, I tell you now, my focus pulling is going to go out of whack. You remember his name?
Bill, or something like that. Reckon he’s straight?
Depends who hired him. If it was Rosen, you never know. One thing’s for sure, by the time this unit gets through with him he won’t be.
“Of course he has a name, doll,” Sheila had said. “Gil Graham.”
Mike had them tucked safely out of sight behind a pile of loosely stacked stage flats in a corner of a massive sound stage that felt like their own secret place. Gil looked at him with come-to-bed eyes and Mike saw there excited anticipation. The message in those eyes was compelling.
“You are just a little bit gay, aren’t you?” Mike softly suggested.
The gesture more than any words gave Mike the answer he craved. Gil raised a hand and trailed his fingers lightly over Mike’s stiffening nipples under his damp tee-shirt and then prospected the furrowed muscles of Mike’s upper abdomen. “You work out, don’t you?” Gil breathed huskily.
“A bit,” Mike said. “For swimming. You’re not in such bad shape either. I bet you go surfing, and parading up and down those Californian beaches, showing off to all the other surfer boys.”
Gil tripped fingertips slowly over Mike’s stomach and the tickling made the muscles clench hard. “Yeah, it gets me so aroused to pose on the Boardwalk at Venice and think of all the guys I could have.” He slipped his hands up under Mike’s tee-shirt and rubbed his fine down of hair matted together with a light sheen of perspiration. Gil looked up dreamily. “But I never came across anyone as gorgeous as you, Mike.”
Mike smiled wickedly. “I’d love to come across you…” He lifted a hand to smooth some loose strands of blond hair from Gil’s forehead, and he saw how the boyish gesture filled Gil with a great sense of longing. Mike moved to the next level. He dropped his hand to explore the shape of Gil’s cock and balls through his denim shorts, while Gil kept his attention on the sharply defined musculature of Mike’s belly.
They pressed closer and Gil laid his head on Mike’s shoulder. The embrace became more passionate. Gil began to nibble at Mike’s ear lobe. He took the silver stud between his teeth.
Mike shivered with the buzz Gil’s tongue gave him. “God, I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you in the foyer. I was watching you from the second you walked to the lift.”
“‘Elevator,’ you mean. In the lobby. You English,” Gil said and grinned with pleasure at sharing the joke. He shyly ran fingers through the floppy tangle of dark hair behind Mike’s ears.
Mike sighed contentedly and turned his attention to fondling Gil’s ass, caressing the firm rounded buns and tickling the bare skin of his thighs below the frayed edge of the shorts. “I noticed you okay. I didn’t know whether you were gay or not, but I’m so glad you are.” Mike raised Gil’s head. Their lips met, and for minutes they explored the secret chambers of their mouths.
Eventually Mike could bear it no longer. Without interrupting the kiss he unhooked the top of Gil’s shorts. Gil wriggled his hips and they fell to the floor. Mike slid questing fingers under the waistband of the thin briefs and Gil’s hard cock banged into his grip. He felt the length, surely a good eight inches from lightly haired root to circumcised cockhead? As he’d expected, like all the Americans Mike had serviced, Gil was neatly cut, like himself. Almost all the boys at Fabian had intact foreskins—the “Cavaliers,” and in his first term there Mike had been an object of interest for being a “Roundhead.”
A moment later Gil reciprocated and ran his hand down over Mike’s bulging fly, followed the rigid trapped shape to the lower hem of the shorts. He gave a sigh of pleasure as he discovered Mike’s ramrod-stiff dick stuck straight down from the bottom of the shorts. At least five inches protruded, hot and sticky from tumescence. Gil fondled the circumcised head, rubbing its own moisture around it. He eased the strained cuffs up to get at more length and feel Mike’s balls.
“Mmm, God but I want to do you,” Mike murmured. “What do you like? Do you fuck?”
Gil shook his head. “I showed off, but I never…” He looked into Mike’s eyes, searching to see if disbelief or mockery lay there at his inexperience.
Mike thought he would melt at the sheer wonderfulness of Gil’s vulnerability, that he would deliquesce and seep into the very atoms of this beautiful, vibrant creature who had come into his life.
“What do you want to do to me?”
Practical words and a seductively sly twinkle in the gray eyes brought Mike back to earth. His dick jerked. “I know what I want to do right now,” he whispered. “I want to know what your cock feels and tastes like.” And with that he bent down and started flicking his tongue over the convexity of the briefs, mouthing sideways along the hidden length. Gil fell back against the wall and thrust out his hips and it was he, not Mike, who thrust thumbs down the sides and forced the briefs down out of the way. Mike wiped his tongue along the exquisite smoothness of s
kin. Spit ran onto his tongue, making a lovely slippery passage down the heaving shaft until the lobed head slid into his mouth, tasting sweet and salty at the same time. Mike leaned back and the action pulled Gil’s cock out straight so he could slowly swallow the entire eight inches.
Mike spent minutes licking and lipping the plum-shaped crown like a kid with a particularly sweet lollipop; drink on a stick, as the ice cream man used to say.
When he stood, he shoved his bushwhacker khaki shorts and underpants out of the way in a swift movement. It’s right. The time’s right, the person’s right. This is the guy I want to spend the rest of my life with… my Ideal Friend. “Fuck me, Gil, please?”
He loved the look of eager uncertainty Gil flashed at him. Desire and fear of not doing it properly battled on his delectable face.
“I’ll guide you,” Mike said softly. He took hold of the saliva-slick cock and turned to settle himself against Gil, to press the spit-lubricated cockhead against his asshole. Gil wrapped his arms around Mike’s waist. “If the world ends in a few minutes, I won’t care, Gil. Fuck me now.”
Hot breath scorched his ear. “Okay, Mike. Then I want to suck you off. I want to know what well-brought-up English cum tastes like.”
And Mike felt the encompassing sensation of penetration as Gil pushed home.
Yes… home…
Ah no… the agonizing pain of a hard-on with nowhere to go. No sleep. Absolutely none. Not really. Well, barely any. A kind of half-awake drowsiness populated by repetitive waking-dreams of uncompromising reality had Mike twitching on his bed, any covers thrown off for the sultry heat (air-con off again; he’d forgotten to bribe the concierge). None of his nighttime apparitions were real, of course, but the terrible, longing ache in his cock was. Properly awake there was a frustrating lack of clarity to them and the awful feeling he had somehow missed out on something fabulously sexy with the young American newcomer. The empyrean webs of his dreams may have faded with awakening, but a more primal memory wouldn’t let go of his painful morning woody.