Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  The sight of another man, especially one who was so physically spectacular, riding the ass of my lover was intensely erotic. It was like having my very own private porn film, made to measure for me, played out in my bedroom. My gaze was locked on Momar’s violated asshole. His sphincter ring was stretched taut around the shaft of Giovanni’s cock.

  Giovanni, for his part, was pumping away with an admirable, machinelike regularity. It was as though our tryst of an hour or so previously had never taken place, and that he’d been starved for sex for weeks until this moment! I had to admit it—even by Roman standards, Giovanni was quite a stud.

  “Fuck me,” Momar demanded, repeatedly, as he lay there under Giovanni, gleefully accepting his every thrust. As I’d anticipated, once he got warmed up, Momar had quickly gotten over his ass shyness. “Fuck me!”

  Giovanni strove manfully to satisfy my lover, and himself.

  “God!” he gasped. “Your ass is so tight and hot. And I’m so hard. So close to coming. If I don’t come soon, I’ll explode. I mean, I’m really afraid my dick will burst wide open!”

  He seemed to be in genuine distress. But I was more than willing to come to his aid.

  “Pull it out of Momar’s ass and shove it in my mouth,” I volunteered, lewdly. “Fuck my face and shoot your load right down my throat.”

  “No,” he gasped. “Not yet. I’m not going to let you get away with just sucking me.”

  “No?”

  “No. I want you to do something else to me, for me—”

  “Name it.”

  “I want to have my ass rimmed some more before I blow my wad,” Giovanni confessed. Despite his extreme degree of arousal, he managed to relax his facial features into a tight smile. “Ah. I thought you’d be shocked.”

  “Me, shocked? That’s a laugh,” I quipped.

  “I guess I underestimated you. From the look on your face, I can tell you’d be willing to do that for me.”

  “I’ve already licked your ass once today,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah. And it felt good—so good. This time, I’d like to sit on your face and smother you with my buttocks. Keep your mouth pressed against my hole, and feel your tongue going in and out of me. Would you like that?”

  I nodded. I would like that a lot!

  His facial expression softened still more, until it was open, warm, and seductive. During our conversation, he’d slowed his fucking pace. Now, he came to a halt inside Momar’s ass, and then he carefully withdrew his phallic weapon from the black man’s butt.

  Giovanni twisted himself around on the bed, getting up on his knees and turning his back toward me. “Now,” he breathed. “I’d like to have you do it, right now—”

  That incredible ass of his was bared to my gaze, the muscular cheeks spread like his legs, the deep narrow crevice running between the firm mounds dark and inviting.

  I still had a full erection, myself, but I forced myself to ignore it, for the time being.

  “Come here and lick it,” Giovanni pleaded. “Clean it out for me. Get it good and wet. With your tongue. My balls—they need to feel a hot mouth and a wet tongue on them, too. Oh, I can’t wait. Come on,” he urged. He spread his legs a little more, and he pushed his butt back toward me.

  I moved forward and I could almost taste his ass even before I got within licking distance of it.

  When I finally did kiss his sphincter and plunge my tongue through it, he let out a soft moan and he spread his legs even wider.

  “Eat me,” he begged. “Oh, please—eat me just like that! Suck my ass!”

  I rimmed him furiously for something like fifteen minutes, while he seized his cock in his fist and beat himself off. He toyed with his penis, milking it slowly and cautiously. He was obviously trying to prolong his pleasure for as long as possible, forestalling his ejaculation until the last possible moment.

  In my experience, a lot of extremely macho, rough-looking and –acting men seem to melt and become soft and vulnerable, once they’re thoroughly aroused and are at the mercy of their libidos. Giovanni was no exception.

  “Come here,” he begged Momar. “Suck me … suck my cock while your boyfriend licks my ass! Please! I’m so hot … so horny. I can’t stand it!”

  Luckily for Giovanni, Momar was the accommodating type. He buried his face in Giovanni’s crotch and swallowed up the full length of his dick.

  “God! I can’t believe this,” our guest panted. “Two hot men working on me at once. On my cock and on my ass—! God! Oh, God!” Giovanni shouted, as though he did indeed expect the divinity to come to his assistance at any moment, and grant him the relief of orgasm.

  When he came, his entire behind tightened around either side of my face. Squeezing against my cheeks and threatening to suffocate me. But far from bothering me, the sensation only added to my already intense excitement. I drove my tongue deep into his ass and worked it around inside him as energetically as I could.

  “Yes. Fuck, yes,” Giovanni moaned. His asshole tightened, clenching and flexing around my stiffened, probing tongue, with which I continued to fuck him. “Fuck!” he cried, loudly and hoarsely. And then his whole body shook. With one hand, he reached down and pushed Momar away from his crotch. He started to jerk himself with his other hand; but the instant he touched himself, the cum started pouring out of his prick, onto his hand.

  When he was done ejaculating, Giovanni turned to me, his hand outstretched. The still warm semen glistened in his palm.

  “Taste it,” he invited me.

  I did more than just taste it. Greedily, I lapped up every single drop of his cum. I swabbed his hand with my tongue until I was sure I had ingested all of his jism.

  My neglected hard-on was now like a bar of hot steel rising straight up from my groin, throbbing away with agonizing force.

  It was as though Giovanni could read my mind.

  “You didn’t come yet, did you?” he asked.

  “No. I came damn close, though. Now, I’m suffering the same way you were suffering, before you shot. If I don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to explode.”

  “You won’t have to do anything about it. I’ll take care of it for you,” he promised. “And I suppose turnabout is fair play. I just sat on your face. Now let me sit on your dick. You can fuck me.”

  Giovanni rode my cock. What an ass! He was insatiable, and he had a way of flexing his anal muscles around my shaft that made me feel as though a hot, slippery fist was manipulating my prick.

  “Harder,” Giovanni begged me, as he rose and fell on the fulcrum of my erection. “Fuck me harder, man—as hard as you can. I like it rough!”

  While I struggled to give Giovanni what he wanted, Momar was idle. He was there on the bed right beside us, using his lips and tongue, his fingers, to stimulate us while we fucked.

  I’d promised Giovanni dinner. At the rate we were going, though, I didn’t see how I’d be able to summon the energy to haul myself out of the bed, let alone do any cooking. If we ever did stop having sex, the three of us might have to treat ourselves to a little restorative nap, before dinnertime.

  But, like Momar, I prided myself on being a good host. I’d make sure that Giovanni was well wined and dined—at some point before the evening was over. It was the least I could do, to reward the stallion for the pleasure he was giving me.

  In the meanwhile, though, there were other appetites which still needed to be slaked.

  Our afternoon romp was turning into a real, old-fashioned orgy, the kind at which the ancient Romans would have felt right at home. I was a respecter of tradition, after all. Living in Rome, I’d adopted Roman ways. And so I settled down comfortably under Giovanni, and I went right on fucking him.

  Chapter Twelve: A Reencounter with an Old Friend

  We’d completed the filming of Il Prode Gladiatore di Roma. Alain and I had spent a lot of quality time together, both on and off the set. I was grateful that Momar wasn’t the jealous or the possessive type, but quite the opposite. He un
derstood that I needed to spend some of my free time with Alain, one on one. Which didn’t prevent Alain and me from enjoying several three-way romps in bed with my sexy Sengalese lover!

  Alain went back to Paris, to his family. Once again, our relationship was put on hold, until such time as we could arrange to get together again, maybe for a holiday. And I flew back to the States, to spend a little time with my family. My father wasn’t well, which was a cause for concern. (Luckily, he made a good recovery, and lived to a ripe old age.)

  Upon my arrival in New Jersey, I rented a car. I missed my Alfa Romeo, which was waiting for me back in Rome. This rental vehicle was hardly comparable, but it was serviceable.

  It was autumn. The leaves were changing, and falling. Sometimes, the nights could get chilly. Still, it was beautiful.

  I became restless. One day, I decided to go joy-riding, just for the hell of it. I warned my mother than I might stay overnight somewhere, and return the following day.

  I avoided New York City. I drove north, along the west bank of the Hudson River. There was some nice scenery to see, especially when the river itself was within view from the highway.

  As I drove, my thoughts wandered, freely.

  Suddenly, I remembered how Renzo had been sent by his father to a small town in upstate New York, on the Hudson, to manage a garage there.

  We’d lost touch. It seemed strange, that two guys could be so intimate, only to drift apart and lose contact with each other.

  I still loved him. I guessed that was silly. How was it possible to love a man whom you hadn’t seen, or talked to, for a couple of years?

  I remembered the town’s name, and I didn’t have trouble finding it on the road map which I’d brought along.

  I had no idea where Renzo might be now. Still, I was curious to see the place where he had lived.

  It turned out to be a pleasant-looking place, spread out along the bank of the river.

  A lot of people in this community probably worked in New York City. They commuted, taking the train to Manhattan every day during the week. Near the train station was a diner. From the looks of it, it did a brisk business, which was a sure sign that the food was good.

  I went in, and I ordered a sandwich with fries, and coffee.

  I saw a phone booth, near the rest rooms. While I was waiting for my food, I could look for the name Perotti in the phone book. But I had another potential source of information, closer at hand.

  “Tell me,” I asked the waitress. “Years ago—there used to be a garage here, owned by a family called Perotti.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Is it still in business?”

  “They’re still in business. They own more than one.”

  “That’s interesting. And there was a guy my age, a family member, who came here from New Jersey to work in the garage. I imagine you’ve never heard of him. But his name was Lorenzo, or Renzo—?”

  “You must mean the mayor,” the waitress said.

  “The mayor? You mean—the mayor of this town? I don’t think so. Hardly. Not the guy I’m talking about. Trust me. He wasn’t exactly mayoral material!”

  “I’m not so sure. You said a man about your age, right? There can’t be that many named Lorenzo Perotti. In any event, you’re likely to find out, soon enough. He and his assistant—they usually come in here for lunch, about this time, every day during the week. See that reserved sign on the booth, over there? That’s where they sit. In fact … here they come, now.”

  Two men in business suits had indeed entered the diner. The first was young, obviously Italian-American, with a typical olive complexion, sexy bedroom eyes, and a crop of dark, curly hair.

  I didn’t pay much attention to him, because I was riveted by the sight of his companion.

  This was a man about my own age. He was the possessor of a husky, muscular physique, displayed to good advantage by his well-cut pinstriped suit. His silk tie was a bit on the loud side, and his jewelry—wristwatch, bracelet, tie clasp, and cuff links—was oversized.

  Our eyes met, and we stared incredulously at each other.

  “Oh, my God,” I blurted out. “It’s really you, Renzo!”

  “And it’s really you!”

  “The mayor!”

  “The movie star!”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Me, either. What the hell are you doing here, Gino?”

  “Just passing through, on a whim. I did think I might try to look you up.”

  “You’ve found me.”

  “Yes, I have, and it’s incredible. After all these years.”

  “You’ve done all right for yourself, stud,” Renzo said.

  “But so have you.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he acknowledged, with a modesty which would have been wholly uncharacteristic of him, back in the old days. “Me, a successful businessman. A politician. Who’d have thought? But I’m forgetting my manners.” Renzo introduced me to the younger man, whose name was Flavio. “My right-hand man,” Renzo explained.

  “What a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dagaust,” Flavio said, as we shook hands.

  “Call me Gino,” I insisted.

  “I’ve seen all of your movies,” Flavio assured me.

  “Everybody has,” Renzo said. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he blasphemed. “I still can’t believe it. The big movie star. Here, in our town!”

  “Here, indeed,” I said. “But look at you! God, how you’ve changed. All for the better, of course.”

  “I haven’t changed one goddamn bit,” Renzo insisted. “I’ve always had style, and class. The only difference is, now I’ve got enough money to bring it off. Sit down, goombah. Sit down, and we’ll have lunch.”

  We sat down in the reserved booth, and we spoke so volubly that I don’t know how we managed to eat our food, although we did so. As for poor Flavio, he simply sat there and smiled, unable to get a word in edgewise.

  Renzo, I learned, owned a string of garages in the area, as well as a couple of new and used car dealerships. He even appeared in commercials on the local television station.

  “I’m an actor, too,” he bragged. “So don’t think you have a monopoly on it!”

  “And this mayor thing?”

  “They needed somebody to do the job, so what the hell? I decided to run for it. They elected me, and they seem to think I’m doing okay, so far. I seem to have a talent for wheeling and dealing—which is all this mayor gig is, really. It keeps me busy. It keeps me off the streets—out of trouble.”

  I wasn’t sure how freely I could speak, in front of Flavio.

  “No wife?” I asked, casually.

  “Hell, no! No live-in boyfriend, either,” Renzo volunteered, cheerfully. “I’m still young. I like to play the field.”

  I guessed that answered my questions! Renzo hadn’t turned straight, or bisexual. He was still gay. He was unattached. And, apparently, he was “out”—at least to such intimates as Flavio. Of course, knowing Renzo as I did, I suspected that in all probability he was fucking Flavio, who after all was quite a hunk.

  Our conversation was interrupted several times, by people who knew Renzo and Flavio, and came over to greet them. Renzo and his assistant were apparently well known, and liked, by the locals.

  As for me, my incognito was blown. A couple of our fellow diners had overheard Renzo calling me a movie star. I was recognized, and I had to sign a few autographs. Renzo found this highly amusing.

  “I’m surprised you don’t charge for that,” he remarked. “Which reminds me. How’s that bodybuilder buddy of yours, Eric Streiff, doing?”

  “Eric is doing fine. We talked on the phone, long distance, recently. We’re hoping to get together soon.”

  Renzo smiled, knowingly. “Still carrying the torch for the dude, huh?” He’d discreetly lowered his voice.

  “Eric and I are friends.”

  “In the same sense that you and I used to be friends.”

  “You and I are still friends, Renzo,” I protested. �
��And I hope we always will be.”

  “Does that mean you can fit me into your busy social calendar? For more than just lunch?”

  “I’ve got the whole rest of the day free.”

  “Good. We’ll have to think of some way to fill it, for you. I know. We can take your car to one of my garages, to be serviced. For free. My treat. I still know how to pump gas, you know.”

  “It’s not my car that needs servicing. I can think of a few other things you can treat me to. You always had other skills, Renzo, which I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

  “So did you, Gino.”

  Renzo and I were flirting with each other, across the table. Flavio was tactful enough to pretend he didn’t notice.

  We were still yakking away nonstop when the waitress brought our checks. Over my protests, Renzo insisted on paying mine.

  “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day,” Renzo told Flavio.

  “But, Mr. Perotti, sir—!”

  “Cancel them,” Renzo repeated, firmly. “This is more important. It’s not every day that we have a genuine celebrity pay us a visit. It’s my responsibility to entertain him. In the way to which he’s accustomed.” Renzo smirked at me. “Damn! If only I’d known you were coming, Gino, ahead of time. We could’ve given you the key to the city. In a nice little ceremony in town hall.”

  “We can still do that,” Flavio suggested. “I can get a photographer, and—”

  “I was kidding, Flavio,” Renzo told him. “Gino isn’t interested in all that kind of crap. I bet he’s driven up here to the boondocks in the first place to get away from the publicity hounds for a little while. Am I right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  Outside the diner, I pointed out my rental car.

  “We’ll go to my place and hang out, if you want,” Renzo suggested. That was exactly what I wanted. Renzo dismissed Flavio. “Take the car back to the office. You can pick me up in the morning. Not too early.”