Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  Furthermore, despite the sultry weather, which had its inevitable debilitating effect even on me, I was in a good mood. I’d just come from the studio, where I’d sat down with the producer and the director of my upcoming film. In a mercifully air conditioned office, we ran through the shooting schedule and some other details.

  It was going to be another sword and sandal movie, so I’d be back on familiar ground. The title was Il Prode Gladiatore di Roma, and once again I’d be portraying the heroic underdog, who—overcoming all obstacles—defeats the tyrant in the end.

  I was excited, because I’d be working with Ludovico and Alain again. With the old team reassembled, we couldn’t go wrong.

  Plus, of course, with Alain back in Rome, I’d be making regular visits to his hotel room at night, when the two of us would fuck. These homoerotic reunions of ours were always extremely satisfying.

  We’d begin shooting in a week, and we were scheduled to complete the film within thirty days. Filming during the August and September heat, whether indoors in the studio or outdoors on location, would have its uncomfortable moments, I knew from previous experience. But we movie people were a tough breed. And we were among the exceptions: unlike most other Romans, we couldn’t afford to take a break and make a temporary exodus from the city. The show had to go on.

  But I did have that week of free time ahead of me. I had to study my script and learn my moves and my lines; but otherwise, I could do as I chose. There was no reason why I couldn’t treat myself to a few days’ vacation.

  Or … the prevailing lassitude was getting to me, too. It seemed as though it would be almost as pleasurable, and maybe even more so, to just stay at home and relax. I could stay up late at night. I could sleep in, in the mornings. I could put in some good, hard, leisurely workouts at the gym, getting myself pumped up and ripped for the movie cameras. I could catch up my reading. And I could have sex, to keep in practice, in anticipation of Alain’s arrival. It was never too hot for sex! And I had an advantage—I liked it sweaty.

  I liked my coffee strong and hot, too—even in this weather. I ordered a cappuccino senza schiuma, meaning without the customary foam on top, and a cornetto, or croissant. Nibbling on the cornetto, which I ate plain, with no butter or jam, I made a mental note to the effect that I’d have to start keeping track of my caloric intake even more carefully than usual. After all, I’d soon be baring my chest and my thighs, and strapping on the peplum, again, so I’d need to look my best.

  Glancing up, I noticed a man seated a few tables away from mine. He was facing me—and he was looking at me. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Calmly, he maintained our eye contact. And so did I. Raising my cup to my lips, I sipped my cappuccino, while observing the other guy over its rim. When I set the cup back down in its saucer, I gave him a slight smile. He smiled back.

  I pushed my sunglasses up, on top of my head, so I could see him even more clearly—and so he could get a better look at my face.

  We continued to cruise each other, quite openly, oblivious to our surroundings.

  He was having an espresso al vetro, served in a glass instead of in the standard ceramic cup. I was sure he was a Roman, not a tourist. It was combination of his looks, his clothes, and the relaxed—almost indolent—way he sat there.

  The guy was hot. He was older than me, probably in his mid-thirties. That was fine with me—he was the kind of mature hunk, like Alain, that I always found difficult to pass up. Furthermore, he was a welcome departure from the typical short, slim, boyish Roman male. He was a big bastard for an Italian, well over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. But he wasn’t fat. On the contrary, every inch of his impressive bulk looked as though it was composed of solid muscle. He had intense, steely gray eyes and a short crop of light brown hair. I found him intimidating and sexy at the same time.

  He wore a white linen shirt, long sleeved and secured by cuff links at the wrists, but unbuttoned part of the way down the front, exposing his hairy chest—and a crucifix, suspended from a neck chain, nestled in the deep groove between his pecs. He also wore loose-fitting trousers, and sandals on his big bare feet. He looked cool and comfortable.

  We’d both finished our coffee, and in my case, my croissant. We were lingering at our respective tables—and still flirting pretty brazenly with each other, across the distance that separated us.

  He pulled a pen and a small notebook out of his trouser pocket. Very methodically, making a sort of performance out of it—and making sure I was watching his every move—he wrote something on the page, which he then tore out and folded, twice. He replaced the pen and notebook in his pocket. He left the folded piece of paper displayed there on the table, where it rather resembled a primitive example of origami.

  He called the waiter over and paid his bill. The waiter brought back his change. He tipped the waiter, who thanked him.

  To me, all of these actions seemed to take place in slow motion, because I was so impatient to see how our flirtation would turn out. I felt reckless. If he started to leave the café without approaching my table and saying something to me, or at least giving me further nonverbal signals, then I decided I’d get up and intercept him. I tried to think of something to say, to start a conversation. Of course—I could always ask him for directions. To where, exactly, didn’t really matter, because if he was indeed on the prowl, then he’d know at once it was a ruse on my part.

  But I hadn’t read him wrong. He stood up, and, almost as an afterthought, he picked up that intriguing folded piece of paper. Heading toward the street, he made a detour which brought him right past my table. He looked at me, and smiled. I smiled back. I was about to open my mouth to speak (and to say something no doubt stupid), when he dropped the folded paper onto my table. Treating me to another helping of that sexy smile of his, he walked away, down the sidewalk—without looking back.

  I seized the note and unfolded it.

  The message was polite, but to the point. Seguimi se si desidera divertirsi. [Follow me if you want to have some fun.]

  Did I ever!

  I got up and I followed him, pausing only long enough to throw enough money on the table to cover my bill and the tip.

  I pursued him. He was walking along at a moderate pace, which made it easy for me to catch up with him.

  He paused at a corner, where a very narrow alley intersected the main street. Only then did he glance behind him, to confirm that I was following him. Grinning widely and seductively, now, he nodded his head toward the alley. I nodded, too. He went into the passageway, and once again I followed him, quickly.

  He seemed to know where he was going—where he was taking me. Threading our way between red brick walls on either side, steering around garbage cans and assorted refuse littering the ground, we suddenly found ourselves in a tiny open area, surrounded by the walls of tall buildings, too modest to be called a courtyard.

  Now, picking up a stranger and accompanying him to some out of the way place is a good way for a gay man to get mugged in Rome, as in any other large city. For all I knew, my admirer was really lusting after my watch and my neck chain. But on this occasion, I was horny enough to take the risk. And I flattered myself that I had a certain physical advantage, and could take care of myself. If it did come down to a nonsexual confrontation, I felt confident I could bluff my way out of it, or fight to defend myself if I really had to.

  The man and were now standing face to face.

  “You’re a big guy,” he told me.

  “So are you.”

  “I like them big.”

  “So do I.”

  Our conversation may not have been profound, but it was moving along quickly and efficiently, and it seemed to be headed in a very promising direction. And, to my delight, he didn’t make the once-obligatory remark to the effect that my accent was that of a straniero. I must’ve learned how to talk more like a Roman, during the past few months of my residence in the city.

  I knew I’d mastered the art of cruising oth
er men like a Roman, and having sex with them. If I still had any doubts about my prowess as a tramp, my admirer immediately laid them to rest. He was staring at me, with an undisguised lust.

  “Your cock,” he said, bluntly. “Is it as big as the rest of you?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  “Take it out. Let me see it.”

  I took a step back into the alley, out of the open space and the bright sunlight. He followed me. Standing in the cooler shadow, with my back turned toward one of the brick walls, I exposed myself—which, given my lack of underwear, wasn’t a lengthy or difficult process. In other words, I unbuckled my crocodile belt, I unzipped my fly, I pushed down my tailored khaki slacks—and I whipped it out. Looking down at my genital display, he didn’t seem to be disappointed. And, as I’d hoped, he didn’t content himself with just looking. He wanted to touch, feel, and taste, too.

  He got down on his knees, right there in the dirty alley. Cupping my dangling balls in the palm of his warm, sweaty hand, he curled his fingers around the shaft of my cock, and he guided it expertly to his mouth. His lips nuzzled my flesh for a moment, kissing my penis as fervently as though it was a long-lost lover with whom he’d unexpectedly been reunited; and then he stuck out his tongue and he licked my erection passionately from tip to base, then back again. Exhaling in a sort of an emphatic snort through his flared nostrils, he opened his mouth wider and sucked my dick inside.

  He blew me with a connoisseur’s relish, taking his time, sliding his lips up and down around me slowly and provocatively, as though he wanted to draw out the pleasure for both of us. He had no difficulty taking every inch of me into his mouth. When my cockhead probed toward his throat, he didn’t back away. He accepted the deeper oral penetration. Instead of gagging, he held on, emitting guttural rumbles of appreciation and delight from deep in his throat.

  After sucking my cock like that for some time and getting a good first taste of what I had to offer, the man released me from his oral grip—reluctantly, I was sure. He stood up, smiled at me slyly, and, grasping my shoulders, he spun me around. He pressed my face against the rough red bricks of the alley wall and he reached around me and yanked my jeans down around my thighs, baring my ass. I heard him unbuckle his own trousers and unzip his fly.

  “Hey, amico,” I protested. “I didn’t say you could fuck me.”

  He stuck a saliva-moistened finger into the cleft of my ass and tested the resilience of my sphincter ring with his probing digit. He slid it inside effortlessly. I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck as he laughed, with an audible confidence and, indeed, arrogance.

  “You didn’t have to say it. Not in words, anyway. Your ass is telling me that it wants to be fucked,” he said.

  He slipped a second finger inside me, alongside the first. He nudged them both deeper inside me, following the curve of my rectum with his hand. I rose up on the balls of my feet, allowing him deeper access to my butt. He palpated that special, swollen spot tucked away far up inside me.

  “Oh, your ass is speaking to me again, even louder this time,” he exulted. “It’s telling me how much it needs to be fucked!”

  “Yes,” I gasped, and that monosyllable told him all he needed to know. “But not here. Somebody might come along and see us here,” I objected, feebly.

  After all, it was broad daylight, just after midday. We were in an alley, admittedly; but it was an alley right around the corner from a busy street. There I was, with my pants down around my knees, my legs spread wide, and my butt bared. A guy whom I had met barely forty minutes earlier, whose name I didn’t even know, had his hand inside my ass. And he wanted to fuck me, then and there. It wasn’t just going to be a zipless fuck, as the expression goes. It was going to be an al fresco [open air] fuck, too.

  “Somebody might see us,” he agreed. “So what? Either he’ll be shocked, and he’ll run away. Or he’ll want to stay and watch.”

  It was interesting that he assumed our theoretical observer would be male.

  “He might run away—and complain to a police officer,” I suggested.

  “So what? I like cops.”

  “I like them, too, but I don’t want to be arrested by one for public indecency.”

  “If anybody does come along and sees us, I’ll tell him he can join us. That includes this cop you’re so worried about. I’ll tell him I’ll suck him off, too, if he gives us a break. And that he can have your ass, too. Trust me,” he added, with a droll, self-satisfied inflection. “We won’t be arrested. I can guarantee you that.”

  My admirer wasn’t just horny. He was obviously also the reckless type.

  “Let’s hope you’re persuasive,” I told him.

  “I can be, when I have to be. Right now I want to persuade you to let me have your ass. We’re wasting time.”

  I couldn’t argue with that last remark. If I was really so concerned about the possibility of us getting caught in the act, then getting into a prolonged discussion was surely counterproductive.

  I was already letting him finger my prostate. It was a little late for me to start acting hard to get.

  “All right,” I said. “Go ahead. Do it. Fuck me.”

  I did take the token precaution of glancing up and down the alley in either direction. Mercifully, there was no one within sight. All was silent, except for the hum of the occasional insect buzzing sluggishly through the air. At this time of day, such back streets in Rome tended to be deserted, and quiet. But someone could have been watching us from any one of the shuttered windows that looked out onto the alley. Well, obviously both of us were willing to take that risk.

  I breathed slowly and deeply, in a futile attempt to calm myself. As keyed up as both of us were, this wasn’t likely to take long.

  The man spat onto his fingers and he shoved them up my ass once again, preparing me for his cock with his own natural lubrication. His fingers were so big that I almost felt as though there was a dick inside me already. I pressed both of my palms up against the rough brick wall to steady myself.

  “Hurry up,” I told him. “Get your cock in me. Fuck me, before somebody comes along and we get caught. Fuck me—oh, hell!”

  I interrupted myself. There wasn’t anything hesitant about my pickup. He was already fucking me.

  The blunt head of his erect penis pressed against my asshole. I hadn’t had a chance to see his cock, except through the covering of his pants, and I had no idea how large or small it might be. Instinct warned me that he would not be small. He pressed forward. Instantly, he confirmed my most cherished hopes.

  Oh, fuck! He was big, all right. Really big. Blunt-tipped, thick-shafted, and long. And he was tearing me apart!

  “Mother of God!” I cried. My eyes were filling with tears. “Christ!”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” he told me, like the good Catholic boy he no doubt was.

  He seized my waist in his huge hands and he continued to push his monster cock into my hole. I bit down hard on my lower lip to prevent myself from screaming. It felt as though my anus was going to be split wide open!

  “Merda! [Shit!]” I yelped. “Could your fucking dick be any bigger? Where’d you borrow that thing from, anyway? From a horse?”

  “You seem to be taking it, all right,” he observed.

  “It’s ripping me wide apart, you son of a bitch!”

  “Oh, don’t exaggerate,” he scoffed. “A big man like you, with all of those muscles—your asshole should be able to stretch open wide enough to take my cock. Relax. Open up. Loosen your shitter and let me get all the way inside. That’s right. There,” he said calmly, with audible satisfaction. “You have it all the way inside you now. And it feels good, doesn’t it?”

  It felt like a baseball bat, shoved up my ass!

  “Oh, God. Big dick up my ass,” I groaned.

  “And you like them big, don’t you, muscle man?” he taunted me.

  “Yeah, the bigger the better, you human mule,” I insulted him. “Fuck me! Fuck me!
Come on, you hung bastard. Now that you’ve got it in me, do something with it. Screw the hell out of my hole!”

  My ass was on fire and, despite myself, I could feel my guts starting to knot up in panic-stricken resistance. What had I gotten myself into? His prick was simply too big for me to accommodate comfortably. I had to fight to suppress my natural instinct to reject it. I had to will my ass to relax and accept the thick intrusion. I focused on my breathing. At last the agony started to subside and the sensation of being scraped raw from inside began to lessen.

  He thrust his cock more roughly in and out of me. I gasped as his repeated pumping action stretched my already expanded asshole even wider.

  Despite the violence of the initial penetration, he was fairly gentle with me to begin with. He held my hips in a tight grip and slowly began to ease himself back and forth. The pressure and friction of his cock as it moved along my anal tract drove me crazy. I was suddenly aware of every nerve in my body and how it reacted; and yet the only sensation I cared about was the perception of that awesome piece of human flesh invading my ass.

  I was ready for him now.

  “Give me that big dick,” I begged. “Fuck me for real, now! Let me feel it, you bastard! Let me feel every inch of it!”

  He gave me what I wanted. He withdrew his cock until only the fat, bulbous head remained stuck inside me—and then he began to give it to me, hard and fast. His hips slapped against my bare buttocks as he pounded me against the rough brick wall. He was an animal, acting on his most basic urges. I was helpless in his grip, unable to wriggle away from the fierce impalement. I was completely submissive to his massive cock.