The Blue Cat

by Roland Graeme

  “Am I? And that pleases you? We will make love now, yes?”

  “We will make love now, Vittorio, oh most definitely yes.”

  Before I could move toward the bed, he swung his powerfully muscled legs and big feet over its edge, stood up and strode forward, closing the distance between us.

  There was little doubt about what he had in mind by way of foreplay. Finished talking for the time being, he stood holding his hard cock in his hand, offering it to me.

  I got down on my knees and took the agitated flesh in my mouth. My mouth slid over its smooth fleshy exterior. A blood-engorged vein pulsed against my lower lip. I forgot everything else as I reacquainted myself with the familiar and wonderful taste and feel of another man’s penis. Sucking cock has always been one of my greatest pleasures in life, and Vittorio was exceptionally well equipped to satisfy the kind of man who, like me, really got off on pleasing his fellow men orally. His dick, to put it crudely, was the size of a length of salami and it tasted every bit as good.

  There was that tangy smell of sex. Vittorio’s coarse pubic hair glistened with drops of sweat, and the funky aroma of a man’s crotch filled my nose as I moved my mouth up and down his shaft, my forehead colliding with his belly when I forced the entire length of that oversized Italian dick into my mouth. As an additional stimulant, there was the sight of his low-slung testicles moving up and down along with our joint motions.

  After I had sucked him for quite some time, nonstop, not even pausing to grab a quick full breath, I began to introduce some variety into my oral act. For example, I made a little game out of using my tongue to trace the veins and other distinguishing characteristics of that big hard cock.

  I coaxed him slowly but steadily toward the point at which he was in danger of coming in my mouth. Not that I wouldn’t have been willing to ingest his sperm, but I didn’t want our mutual pleasure to end so soon, and I sensed that Vittorio, too, wanted to take his time and felt no need to rush toward orgasm.

  “Careful,” I heard him whisper, as he eased his prick back out from between my lips.

  I could feel Vittorio’s hands reach down under my arms and lift me up. I hated letting his cock go, but he’d evidently had enough of my mouth for the time being. When I was standing facing him, he gave me a long, sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue invading the inside of my mouth as aggressively as his penis had a moment before. Still kissing me, he began edging both of our bodies toward the waiting bed. I can’t say I offered any resistance—quite the opposite!

  He positioned me face down on the mattress, but with one knee bent and the foot of that leg dangling over the side of the bed. The result was that my ass was totally open. A light breeze had finally sprung up outside, I could actually feel the warm air flowing into the room from the open windows and wafting around the hairs that surrounded my sphincter. My cock was hard, pressing uncomfortably into the mattress.

  “Ah, you have a pretty ass,” Vittorio told me.

  “Thank you.”

  “May I play with it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He rubbed a fingertip up and down the cleft between my buttocks, pausing in the middle of each of these strokes to exert extra pressure against my sphincter. My butthole tensed instinctively at his touch, as though it knew it was in imminent danger of being invaded and was trying to defend itself.

  “Open it,” Vittorio whispered. “Open that sweet hole for me, signore.”

  I relaxed my sphincter and his finger slid inside me. He began to push it in and out of my hole, which constricted around the probing digit, once again striving to repel it. Even this slight friction sharply increased my degree of arousal. I could feel the blood pounding through my erection as I writhed about, belly-down on the bed.

  “That’s right, Vittorio,” I told him. “Finger my ass for me. Fuck it with your finger. Oh, that’s it…you’ve hit the spot. Work it. Work that hole. Get me good and hot. Get me ready to take your cock!”

  After agonizingly pleasurable minutes of anal probing, my tormentor finally eased his finger out of me.

  “Now we will fuck,” Vittorio promised me. “I will fuck you well, you will see.” No one had ever spoken truer words, I soon realized.

  I heard the tearing sound of a condom packet opening. I even heard the tiny pop of an air bubble escaping from the tip of the tube as Vittorio squeezed it to squirt some of the lube onto his palm. Then he got into position lying on top of me, his heavy, hairy chest pressing down onto my back. One of his hands clutched my buttock and pulled it away from its twin, with his other hand he guided the head of his slippery, latex-coated penis to my hole.

  It was a thick blunt bulb, and my sphincter cringed as he eased it through the aperture and into me.

  “Open yourself,” Vittorio demanded. “Open yourself and take my cock. Take all of it. You know you want it. Let me get all the way in there. Let me fuck your hot ass!”

  He thrust, fully embedding himself in my butt, and I accepted him without resistance and without protest. It hurt at first, but it hurt in that fiercely stimulating way that let me understand why some men were masochists. When Vittorio began to thrust his cazzo in and out of me, I forgot about the discomfort and responded to his use of my body with whorish abandon.

  The feeling of a rough male animal fucking me was overwhelming. I lifted up my midsection and arched my back to accept and increase the force of each welcome thrust. He was kissing my shoulders and the back of my neck as he humped…making sure that all of me was being paid attention to.

  He pounded in and out of me for what seemed like hours. I was in ecstasy. I couldn’t seem to get enough of that punishing, demanding cock!

  Nevertheless, even a stud with Vittorio’s stamina had his limits.

  “Ah, your ass is so tight, so hot…I can’t stand it, you are drawing the cum right out of me!” he shouted. “Ah, Viscontino, you are going to make me shoot!”

  That telltale sign came, the quickening of his breath. I could feel a surge run through his body as his muscles tensed. He let out a quick, harsh yell and finally his body collapsed on top of mine.

  After a couple of calm and delightful minutes—that time when the aftermath of fucking, with a slackening cock still inside you, is almost as good as the act itself—he began to pull out. When he freed himself from that last possessive grip of my sphincter, we both let out a moan of relief—mingled with a little sadness that it was finished.

  Well, it was finished for now. I had every intention of availing myself of Vittorio’s services again and on a regular basis!

  Vittorio pulled the semen-filled condom off his cock and flung it carelessly onto the floor. He slowly moved me over onto my back. My cock was still rock-hard. He played with it a bit. I thought he might just masturbate me to orgasm, and that would have been fine with me. After such a prolonged hammering of my ass, any form of relief would have been welcome.

  Instead, he took another condom and put it on my cock, then picked up the lubricant and squeezed out some of it to smear over my latex-covered erection. He lifted himself up with an agility and grace that was somewhat surprising to see in such a big man. Kneeling over my erection, he held it straight up in the air. Staring down intently into my eyes, he smiled and used his own body weight to lower himself onto me.

  “Take me,” he invited. “Take me and fuck me, the way I fucked you. Fill my ass.”

  Now it was my turn to feel that initial resistance of tight anal muscles. It was my turn to feel the sudden heat of a man’s insides as they yielded and encased my cock.

  “Ah, Jesus!” he cried. “That’s a big English cock!”

  “And that’s a tight Italian ass,” I retorted.

  “Do you like my behind?”

  “I love it.”

  “Don’t move,” he told me. “Let me do all the work. Let me fuck myself on your cock.”

  I obeyed and he treated to one of the most extraordinary erotic performances of my
life.

  I had never been with a man who was able to flex his sphincter around my cockshaft the way Vittorio did. He also was adept at using his buttock muscles to increase and decrease the pressure of our fucking.

  He would rise up, then lower himself, again and again. He’d hold my erection so tightly with his ass that it approached the point of pain for me, then he’d release the tension so that all I could feel was the sensation of his internal body heat.

  As though his gyrations weren’t arousing enough, Vittorio accompanied them with a steady litany of dirty talk. In a macaronic mixture of Italian and English, he shouted one obscenity after another, including some rather shocking blasphemies involving the Mother of God, Jesus and various saints. He evoked San Gennaro, the patron of nearby Naples, with special frequency, and the saint was encouraged to take an active part in overseeing our copulation.

  “Cazzo à Lei, San Gennaro!” Vittorio roared at one point. “Fuck you, San Gennaro and fuck your miraculous blood! And fuck you, too, Englishman, with your gran cazzo Inglese that is tormenting my ass!”

  I wanted it to go on and on, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t withstand the raw sexuality of his athletic contortions. I came, lifting up my hips and lifting Vittorio along with them, when the surge of my orgasm went through my body.

  “Ah!” Vittorio screamed. “You fucker! May the Holy Virgin forgive you for fucking my ass so well!” I wasn’t certain whether he meant this as a compliment or a reproach.

  Afterward, we lay together on the bed, drenched in sweat and cum, not bothering to get up and clean ourselves off just yet. Vittorio became very amorous and he kissed and caressed me with a fervour that I found almost as enjoyable as our actual sex.

  We eventually dragged ourselves out of the bed and showered together, which was also fun. With towels wrapped around our waists, we went downstairs to the kitchen, where we sat down and drank limoncello on ice.

  Vittorio was in a talkative mood, and I took advantage of that.

  “Tell me about this Signor Rick, who owns Il Gato Blu,” I asked.

  Vittorio needed little encouragement to gossip. I had already heard part of the story, but my informant was able to fill in the gaps.

  A local family had owned and operated Il Gato Blu for several generations. As a young boy, Vittorio himself had worked on the premises, doing odd jobs to earn a little money. The hotel was an institution. It was impossible to think of the town without it. However, times did change, and about a decade earlier, the family began to experience some difficulties. Profits were down. Both the husband and the wife had some medical problems and their children, in a surprising and disappointing break from tradition, showed little interest in taking over the family business.

  Coincidentally, among the usual influx of tourists one summer were two Americans, a gay couple, Rick and Jed. They were both young, handsome and fun loving. Jed came from a wealthy New England family. No one was quite sure about Rick’s background or what he did for a living back in the United States.

  They enjoyed their vacation so much that they returned the next year. In the course of this visit, they found out that the family was contemplating what at first seemed like the unthinkable—namely, putting The Blue Cat up for sale. On impulse, after some brief negotiations, Rick and Jed bought it.

  “They said they had always wanted, ever since they became a couple, to run a bar, a restaurant or some other sort of business together, preferably somewhere in Europe or some other place with a warm climate,” Vittorio told me. “The owners got a good price and they were able to retire. They live in Naples, now.”

  At first, Vittorio went on, some of the locals were sceptical. They were afraid that The Blue Cat might fail under its new ownership or worse…that its essential character might be lost, but like a lot of transplanted Americans, Jed and Rick—Rick, especially—quickly became thoroughly assimilated, until they seemed more Italian than most native Italians, as Vittorio put it. The few innovations they introduced, including some discreet remodelling, were improvements. They were both shrewd businessmen and after a precarious first couple of years, the business once again found itself in the black.

  In response to my question, Vittorio told me that Jed and Rick seemed devoted to one another, although they had an open relationship. They saw nothing wrong with recreational sex. Both of them enjoyed flings with local men or tourists and often a man was lucky enough to find himself enjoying a threesome with both of the proprietors of Il Gato Blu at once.

  I couldn’t help asking. “And were you ever one of those lucky men, Vittorio?”

  He shot me a sly smile. “Let me just assure you, Viscontino, that I will exercise the same discretion in discussing your affairs that I bring to my own affairs—and to those of others.” Even as he made his evasive disclaimer, I saw Vittorio’s smile broaden into a smirk and I suspected I had my answer.

  Vittorio continued his story. Suddenly and inexplicably, less than a year ago, Signor Jed decided to return to United States—for good. He had lost his father and inherited a great deal of money. Some people speculated that he wanted to be near his mother and take care of her. Others suggested that he was simply homesick or that his relationship with Rick had cooled.

  In any event, Jed had departed and Rick, who was not one to confide in anyone about his private concerns, had soldiered on, alone. If he was heartsick, he did not show it. He immersed himself in his work.

  Il Gato Blu went on, as it always had. Because Rick had an instinctive knack for entertaining people, his establishment was one of the most popular places on this stretch of the coast.

  He had not yet taken a new lover. Well, Vittorio added, by way of qualification, after a moment’s thought, Rick had not yet taken a steady new lover. He had his diversions.

  Sometimes, after closing time, he would invite one of his favourite local boys or a good-looking new customer who appealed to him up to his apartment for a nightcap. He didn’t charge for this additional hospitality. These were not serious relationships. Signor Rick was playing the field, as the Americans put it.

  Well, I suppose that includes me, I thought, a bit sourly. Just another one of Rick’s one-night stands.

  “You are a handsome man,” Vittorio told me, by way of conclusion. “A very charming man. Perhaps you will succeed where so many have failed and console the widowed heart of the beautiful Signor Rick.”

  I had to laugh. “You’ve already had me, Vittorio,” I reminded him. “There’s no need for you to flatter me, to get me into bed.”

  “But I do not flatter. You are a fine man. I would be proud to have you as a lover.”

  “Thank you, Vittorio. You’re very sweet, yourself.”

  “I am too much of a brute to be sweet,” he protested—or rather, boasted.

  “Yes, you’re very virile.”

  “Now who is flattering whom?”

  “I do not flatter,” I retorted. “I can’t wait to be with you again.”

  “I am yours, whenever you wish. Remember,” he said, echoing Rupert’s words, “I come with the place.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Baths of Neptune

  One evening after dinner, I was relaxing in Rupert’s living room—not doing anything, not even thinking about anything in particular. I was simply allowing myself to enjoy my “down time” after a day of painting, in the warm, quiet night.

  Vittorio brought me a cup of after-dinner coffee. I thanked him.

  “Do you need anything else, Viscontino, before I leave?”

  “No, Vittorio. I’m fine. Before you leave? Where are you going?”

  “It’s one of my nights to work at Le Terme di Nettuno.”

  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Tell me about the baths, Vittorio. Do you make good money there?”

  “On a good night, I do very well.”

  “I imagine you would.”

  “The real money is not in the regular massages. It’s in the extras, which the custom
ers and I negotiate separately.”

  “I’m an artist, Vittorio, remember? You don’t need to draw me a picture. And what about these customers? What kinds of men patronize the baths?”

  “All kinds. Tourists, of course, who are just passing through San Floriano and have heard about the bathhouse and the pleasures they can find there. But many of the local men go there, too. Not all of them are gay. Some of them go to the baths to satisfy their needs…in a way that cannot get their wives or their girlfriends pregnant.”

  “Ah, so what you’re saying is that Le Terme di Nettuno performs a public service.”

  “Precisely, signore.”

  “And you perform your civic duty there, as well.”

  “To the best of my ability.”

  “You’re a scamp, Vittorio.”

  “I don’t deny it, signore.”

  “Perhaps I should check out the bathhouse some evening. Tonight, in fact.”

  “You would be welcome.”

  “I’ll think about it. You may see me there, later.”

  “I would look forward to it. I can guarantee you a warm welcome. Everyone is very friendly there.”

  Vittorio gave me a copy of the bathhouse flyer. After he left, I studied it as I sipped my coffee.

  It was a discreet little publication, which described the bathhouse and its amenities in Italian, English, French, German and Spanish. There was a street map showing the location, which—like virtually everything else in San Floriano—was within walking distance.

  I’m afraid I can be highly susceptive to suggestion at times. Vittorio had been gone for barely an hour before I decided that a night at the baths was just what I needed.

  I found the address easily. It was a dimly lit recessed doorway in a large, apparently deserted brick building down near the waterfront. There was only a very small, discreet sign on the wall next to the door, above another one of the old decorative tiles so characteristic of this town. This tile depicted a popular motif, the sun with a human face. His unblinking stare and pursed lips, I speculated, might be expressing either disapproval of the activities that went on inside the building, or resignation, since he was powerless to do anything about them. Men would be men, after all and I was no better or worse than the average male.