by Zack
Gil’s eyes widened. “Rosen?”
Jeff nodded his head slowly. “And Rosen don’t like people messing with his property.”
“You never said before. Neither has Mike, actually.”
“He wouldn’t. But he’s got himself into trouble before now for playing fast and loose. Normally Rosen’s here to keep an eye on things…and especially Mike.”
Gil had a puzzled expression on his face. The booze and the noise were beginning to confuse him. It was difficult to think straight. “How come Rosen and, uh…and an English guy…?”
“James Rosen’s a member of the international jet set, Gil, it’s not that hard to find a kid anywhere for a man like him. Just so happens that this one’s a bit more important than the others have been. I didn’t say anything at first because I didn’t think anything would start, but you two have been getting too friendly lately, so take heed of what I say.”
Gil smiled crookedly. “I thought Rosen wanted me, when I saw him.”
Jeff gave a short laugh. “You wouldn’t be here now if that hadn’t been the case. That guy’s never in a hurry to collect. He likes people set up ready and waiting all over the place. I’ve no doubt your time will come. Meantime, lay off Mike and consider laying on me for a change.”
Jeff led Gil over to the camera crowd who were in the middle of a loud and boisterous discussion about the merits of some new camera lens. Most of it went over Gil’s head, and it was evident that because of the alcohol intake most of what they were saying was going over their heads too. After a few minutes the noise became oppressive and Gil began to long for some fresh air. The temperature in the hotel room was unbearably hot. He pulled his T-shirt off and dropped it on a chair as he made his way to the French windows which opened onto a terrace outside. For a moment he lounged against the iron railings surrounding the patio until he noticed a narrow set of steps leading down onto the side street alongside the hotel.
The warm breeze blowing off the nearby sea did little to cool him but it was pleasant to feel it on his damp skin. He made his way rather shakily to the steps and slowly went down into the street below. The sounds of the party faded behind him. Gil strolled along the dark side street and emerged onto the main square of the town. Across the square he could just make out the dirty old cinema with its flyblown fairy lights glowing in uneven rows along the marquee. He thought he saw the dark moving shapes of some figures over by the cinema’s back wall, then the echoing shouts of laughter confirmed his impression.
Idly, he wandered across the square, feeling the burning heat of the day in the dust penetrate his thin-soled sneakers. He looked down in some surprise to see he was still clutching his glass of wine. He lifted it to his lips to drain it when a noise caused him to pause. The Italian boy whom Mike had called a dumb farmboy was standing about ten feet away, watching him with head cocked to one side. The two stared at each other for a second then the Italian smiled widely. “Ey! Americano!” he called, and wheeled around to walk back to his cluster of friends by the cinema.
Gil hesitated a moment then felt inwardly compelled to obey the curious invitation. He finished the wine and flung the glass away. It fell with a faint bouncing clunk and didn’t break on the sandy pathway. The Italian rejoined his friends and leant back casually against the wall, eyeing Gil as he strolled toward the group. There were five of them.
He was definitely feeling a little bit crazy. The boys would not keep still, kept wavering in his sight. Gil was not the sort of guy to just walk up to a group of kids lounging on village corners, especially foreigners in a strange land. But his natural sense of precaution was obliterated by the effects of the wine. Anyway they didn’t look dangerous—just playful. Gil tried focusing his eyes on the youths but wasn’t any too successful so instead he stood there, swaying very slightly from side to side.
Farmboy watched Gil closely, the urchin face guarded in expression. After a couple of seconds of this silent facing down his eyes wrinkled at the corners and his full mouth broke into a cheery grin. “Ey! Americano!” he repeated with a husky softness. The voice was so quiet it hardly reached Gil’s ears. “You no want my sister, then, ey? She very pretty, no costalot.”
Gil could hardly take his eyes from the other’s face, with its own impenetrably black pupils staring back at him. The casual ease with which the Italian kid stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides, slowly fingering the frayed edges of his jeans pockets, spoke of a sensually violent sexuality. Behind him were ranged his four friends, smiling and nudging each other. It all began to take on the air of a Clint Eastwood western, made all the more surreal by the curling poster of the star on the cinema wall.
Gil wiped a dry hand across his eyes and smiled at the Italian, unable to avoid the tempting bulge in his tight-fitting jeans. The kid saw where he was looking and very slowly lifted a hand to his fly. For a moment the waxing moon glinted on the metal of the zipper as the kid caressed whatever lay beneath. All the while he stared fixedly at Gil, smiling quietly. Then he let his head fall back slowly in a mime show of pleasure, indicating arousal by the suggestive raising and stiffening of his hand before his crotch. The other youths broke out in fresh gusts of encouraging laughter.
At this, Farmboy returned his gaze to Gil and stepped forward. Gil waited. The Italian came up close and lifted a hand to Gil’s bulge. He slid his fingers underneath, between Gil’s thighs, cupping the balls, while slowly running his thumb back and forth over the shape of Gil’s cock. Gil was breathing heavily. The Italian began to squeeze a little harder and beneath his thumb he could feel tautening flesh. The Italian took a step back, still holding onto Gil, pulling him with him. Gil stumbled forward, caught himself and reached out for support, taking hold of the guy’s shoulder. The Italian pulled him close, fondling him harder now. Gil could feel the work-hardened pectorals under the rough textured shirt, and as his hand wandered over the other’s chest it slipped through the parted shirt and encountered the hot skin covered in fine dark hairs. The Italian boy leaned his face toward Gil and pressed his lips against Gil’s, turning him around so that his back was facing the others. Gil sensed other hands wandering over his ass, stroking his thighs, and feeling up between his legs. One hand reached around for a feel of his cock, fighting for possession with Farmboy’s hand.
By now Gil was drifting into a dream-like state of sensation and alcoholic haze. The Italian’s tongue slid like a hot snake into his mouth. Gil’s hands were gripping the other’s wide chest, sliding down the narrowing torso until they reached the tattered jeans, then down again to grasp handfuls of hard meat. The others were feeling him all over. While this was going on the group slowly gravitated toward the back of the cinema, out of sight of the rest of the village. The beach lay just behind, its soft dunes reaching up to the very back door of the flea pit.
Suddenly the gently gyrating bundle of kids tripped over the edge of the concrete rampart on which the cinema was built and tumbled over each other into the silky sands of the dunes. Gil lay on his back, staring up at the stars, his body feeling light and ethereal. He became aware that one of the bunch was unzipping his thick cord pants, kneeling beside his head. The heavy material slid down around the legs. Gil looked up and watched in quiet fascination as the guy began jacking off. He lifted his head until he could reach the long pointed dick with his tongue. In eager response the kid swayed forward, the better to get it all into Gil’s mouth.
Farmboy watched this action, still with his Madonnaesque grin, and began to undo his own jeans. He was lying on the sand only a hand’s pace from Gil. He reached out a hand and tried to spread the kneeling guy’s legs further apart. Then he leaned up and, pressing his face close to Gil’s, joined forces with his own darting dick licker. The kneeling Italian began groaning with pleasure, urging his midriff forward with sharp jerking motions. Gil’s tongue kept meeting and touching Farmboy’s as they busily licked and sucked the throbb
ing tool. At the same time someone else was fiddling with Gil’s pants. Urgent hands undid them and pulled them down, sliding inside his shorts, grasping his shaft, and then Gil gasped at the welcome warmth of an eager wet mouth sucking his cockhead.
Farmboy, who was obviously the pack leader, ceased his oral attentions, leaving the field free for Gil, who now began slowly to take the whole length into his mouth. Then Farmboy ringed a hand around the kid’s dick and squeezed firmly, making him groan harder. Gil’s lips brushed against Farmboy’s fingers as he gripped the base of the other boy’s cock, and as he pushed farther down the length he felt the slippery glans push against the back of his throat. Gil commenced pumping really hard. The kid was almost doubled up with pleasure, the root of his cock almost severed by the pressure of Farmboy’s vise-like grip. Then he gave a deep gasp and Gil felt the hot stream of cum shoot into his mouth under such pressure that some escaped through his tight pressed lips.
“Adesso io!” said a voice in Gil’s ear, “now me!” and another proffered cock waved before his eyes. The three camp followers were all kneeling there, hard dicks sticking out, waiting to get sucked. Gil took them in turns, joyously moving from one to another, working them up into a frenzy. Farmboy knelt behind his friends in turn, helping with Gil’s ministrations, until one by one they all came, spurting hot jets of urgent cum.
When this was over Farmboy said something quick in Italian and, zipping themselves up, they disappeared, giggling, into the night. Suddenly Gil was alone with the young gigolo. For a long while they both lay there in the still warm sand, recovering their breath for what undoubtedly lay ahead, smiling and eyeing each other’s heaving bodies. The warm sea breeze nipped at Gil’s slicked torso as he lay there in just his shorts, the loose folds showing off his heavy half-hard cock. The Italian was still fully clothed. Gil stroked the browned arm that lay at rest along the reclining Italian’s flank. Farmboy lifted his arm and their hands met in a firm grip. Slowly they leaned in toward each other until their faces were inches apart, eyes staring into the black pupils. At this close range Gil could see all the detail of his exotic companion’s face. Despite its rough street-wise appearance, a tender, almost vulnerable expression gazed back at Gil. His lips moved sensuously and a pale slip of tongue glimmered in the moonlight as it flicked into and out of sight. They began to kiss, long and passionately. Gil began to get aroused again. Then their bodies were pressing hard together and Gil knew his partner was just as excited.
Gil enjoyed the sensation of being almost undressed while the other was not. He began to fumble with the buttons of the boy’s shirt, slipping it back over the broad shoulders. He lowered his head and started teasing an erect nipple with his teeth, gently biting it and licking it in turn. The Italian fondled his head as he did this. Gil sat up and removed the shirt completely, still tasting the salty beading of sweat from the boy’s tits. Next Gil turned his attention to the tatty old jeans, unzipping them slowly over the hardening bulge. Underneath the Italian wore tiny black briefs which barely contained the equipment packed into them. As he slid the jeans down the boy’s weapon pushed its way over the top of the elastic, glistening wetly in the pale light. Gil could see easily just how big it was, thick and long. A real fucking cock.
The Italian sat up and removed the jeans. Gil couldn’t wait to get a taste of that huge thing, which even now forced the tight briefs downward. They both knelt up, wrapped in each other’s arms, cocks shoved together grindingly. Then the Italian bent down and took Gil in his mouth, sucking at the whole length of stiff flesh, at the same time getting rid of Gil’s shorts. They fell back on the ground groping all over with the Italian on top, sucking hard, running his tough tongue up and down the length of Gil’s shaft. Gil pulled him round and the guy reluctantly abandoned his sucking, kneeling up over Gil so that Gil could have a turn at his cock. The massive rod of tumescent flesh penetrated between his lips and Gil tasted the juice that excitement had brought to the bullety tip.
Both guys were now completely and fully aroused and the pace of their movements had hotted up. Suddenly Farmboy grabbed Gil round his slim waist and turned him over, kneeling between his spead legs. Gil knew what was coming and wanted it badly. He sensed the cockhead pushing at his ass, its own juice lubricating the opening until, with great force, he felt himself penetrated. For a second a flash of pain wracked him and then the Italian was inside him—deep, deep inside. This guy was much bigger than Jeff and the ribbed sides of his cock created a delightful friction. The Italian held onto Gil, wrapping both arms around him and fucking with expertise, his breath grunting in Gil’s ear. They became one person, movements coordinated by the pace of the Italian’s fucking, ramming into Gil until he could bear the pleasure no longer. His own cum was bursting to let fly. A hand groped round him, forcing its way between Gil’s heaving belly and the gritty sand until it achieved its objective and took hold of Gil’s cock, roughly jacking him off in rhythm with their action.
They kept this up for as long as was bearable before, kicking and rolling in the sand, they both ejaculated at the same moment. Gil heard his groans mingle with his partner’s, felt the pumping heat of cum inside him, heard his own hot load gush between the Italian’s fingers and splatter heavily on the sand. For a moment of eternity they both writhed in ecstasy and then fell into a loose heap, panting deeply for air.
It was Farmboy who made the first move.
Gil heard rather than saw as he pulled his jeans back on. A few moments later the Italian grunted something in his own language and then added, “Ciao Americano. We fuck good, huh?”
Gil still didn’t move, the drink now beginning to incapacitate him. He heard the padding footsteps recede. When he got to his feet, rather unsteadily, he felt warm and comfortable. He also discovered that the wad of bills in his back pocket had vanished. “Shit,” he exclaimed in annoyance. He struggled back into his clothes and made his way up off the beach and back to the front of the cinema. But there was no one to be seen. Farmboy and his urchin friends had all fled. He shrugged and crossed the square to the hotel.
Mike was the first person he met, well away himself.
He leered tipsily at Gil. “Where you bin, pally-o?”
“Nowhere much,” Gil muttered in reply.
“Oh no you don’t,” Mike admonished, waving an authoritative finger at his friend. “You got that look in your eye, that says you just bin having your end away.”
Gil gave him a lopsided grin. “Yeah, well, I guess I might have at that. Somebody had my end. And the sons of bitches took all my money as well.”
“Sons of bitches! How many?”
“Five, I think.”
“Crikey Moses! You don’t waste time, do you! How much moolah was it?”
“Huh?”
“The money. How much?”
“Oh, just the remainder of this week’s wages. I guess I can get by.”
“Sure, by borrowing from me. I know you, Gil.’’
Gil smiled happily. “You don’t mind lending me a bit?”
Mike gave him a sour grimace. “Well, I only hope it was worth it.”
“Oh wow, was it worth it! I’m telling you, cheap at the price.”
CHAPTER SIX
Nero Fiddles—Rome Burns
The merciless sun bore down out of a white hot sky. By midday the temperature had reached a hundred in the shade and with the burning orb hanging dead center there was precious little of that about. The sound crew were the ones who got the most rest since their job was much easier to set up when the camera crew had made up their minds as to how they were going to get what Mitchener wanted. Consequently they were usually to be found out of sight of the rest of the unit, huddling under the meager shade of a microphone reflector dish.
Gil was fairly free too because Emmanuelle Lai had completed her contribution to the location scenes and fled back
to the somewhat cooler atmosphere of Rome. Gil was sitting with Mike, sharing a lukewarm can of Coke. They weren’t talking much, no one was, it was too tiring even for conversation. Heat-deadened waves of voices floated over the low hill from the bad tempered camera crew, who were struggling with the grips to get the camera dolly onto tracking rails ready for the next set-up. Mike pulled a smug face. “Poor sods,” he muttered.
There was a scraping sound on the rocky surface and a tall figure appeared round the bluff the sound crew were sheltering behind. It was Eduardo Nero, one of the romantic leads in the picture. Nero had become popular some years back with the later Spaghetti Westerns. He was playing the role of a partisan leader, in charge of a band of Italian rebels hiding in the hills from the German and Fascist Italian forces. Nero’s men were about to blow up a railway bridge. The actual explosion was yet to be done and would involve some models, which were being constructed back in the studio. The shot they were about to do was a tracking shot along the wrecked train carriages as the surviving Germans poured out, guns blazing at the dodging group of Italians.
“Not ready yet?” one of the English sound men asked him.
Nero stopped and grinned at the small group. “No, not yet. Always it is waiting. First Mitchener wants this and then he changes his mind and he wants something different. The camera has been on and off those rails more times than I can count.”
As he smiled his white teeth glinted in the sun. Gil shaded his eyes as he peered up at the actor but all he could see was a hazy figure with heat shimmered outline. Gil had never talked with Nero but admired him from afar whenever he was dashing about the sets. The man was in excellent physical shape and darkly handsome, which had quickly earned him the title of matinée idol. Gil couldn’t make out whether he was being looked at but he thought he was.
