by Zack
“You just seemed very close, the way you were talking and sitting when I came in.”
“Gil’s a nice bloke. We have some things in common.”
Rosen straightened up. “You better get back to work. I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted you for.”
Mike stood up with a puzzled look on his face. “You never forget anything, James…names either.”
“Yeah, well I forgot what his was.”
They walked toward the exit together. Outside Rosen turned to Mike and put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ask that kid to the party at Fantini’s tomorrow night.”
“Who, Gil?”
“Yeah, that Gil, the one who’s not Bill. He’s Fantini’s type and I got to persuade that wop faggot to do me a favor.”
Mike hesitated before answering. “I can’t ask him along for that—”
“Don’t tell him what for, just ask him along. The rest I’ll manage. I mean, I’m not wrong am I? The kid doesn’t mind getting screwed?”
“Oh no—” Mike started before he spotted the trap.
Rosen stared at him, faintly amused at Mike’s expression. “How come you know so much about his sex habits? Or is that what you have in common?”
“Christ, James, can’t I even talk to a guy without you making it into some kind of drama?”
Rosen smiled frostily. “When someone with your loose morals gets close to good looking jail-bait like that I don’t have to be suspicious. I know. Take care, Mike-baby.” The tone implied a threat that belied the words. Rosen strode off leaving Mike feeling frightened and furious at the same time.
“Tosser!” he muttered.
Gil was flattered when Mike passed on Rosen’s invitation. On Saturday night he sat in the front of Rosen’s chauffeur-driven limousine as they sped out to the exclusive suburb where Franco Fantini had his palatial mansion. Behind him Rosen and Mike sat in frozen silence. Fantini had become an influential producer of films on the Spaghetti Western gold rush. Now he was a kind of European film bank and owned most of the real estate involved with the making and post-production of features in Italy.
When they arrived, the flood-lit house was already throbbing with music and the shouts of noisy revelers. A flunky who could have walked straight out of a Caravaggio painting greeted Rosen at the door. He took Gil’s eye because he wore the same look as the hustlers on the Spanish Steps. They walked through the great marbled hall and out again onto a wide patio which surrounded a massive swimming pool. Most of the guests were gathered around its edges, drinking cocktails, talking and laughing, while a few braver souls swam around in the flickering blue water. Gil noticed immediately that men predominated.
Fantini, a gross man in his mid-fifties with iron-gray hair and bright black little eyes set just too close together, came up to Rosen as they stepped out onto the patio. He was full of charm and obsequious comments, patting Mike, whom he obviously had met before, on the head with the paternal air of one man acknowledging another’s pet. If the English boy had a tail, he would have been expected to wag it. Gil just caught the grimace which Mike hid from the others.
When Fantini’s gimlet eyes caught sight of Gil they nearly popped from his head. Rosen introduced Gil to the Italian, who shook his hand. It was clammy and Gil loathed him immediately. The two men began to walk away, deep in conversation and Gil closed up to Mike. A waiter went past with a cocktail-loaded tray. Mike grabbed hold of two Martinis, handing one to Gil. “Cheers,” he said ironically.
“Yeah. You been before?”
Mike nodded his head. “‘Fraid so.” He looked pityingly at Gil, who was busy casting his eye over the crowded scene. For his part, Gil thought Mike was looking preoccupied.
“What’s up, Mike? You’re not your usual bouncing self.”
Mike finished his drink and grabbed a second. “It’s James. He thinks I’ve been unfaithful and he can’t stand that. That guy’s so possessive. Being faithful doesn’t apply to himself of course.”
“Have you?”
“How’s that?”
“Been unfaithful?”
Mike stared nonplussed at Gil for a moment. “It’s you, sunshine. You’re the one he’s talking about, which is ironical, come to think of it.”
“Oh,” was all Gil said. He stared down at the paving stones beneath his feet. “What did he say about me?”
“Nowt. He just knows. He’ll bide his time and then punish us both in some way.” He looked at Gil and shivered despite the heat of the night. One of the house flood-lights was backlighting Gil, turning his blond hair into brilliant silver streams, which blurred as they shifted in the light breeze. “I have to tell you something, Gil. He’s already punishing you by bringing you here.”
Gil’s worried face turned to Mike. “How’s he doing that?” he asked quietly.
“Fantini, that’s how. That gross shit heap always goes for blokes like you. You’re the special offer tonight, one world famous producer to another. This business hasn’t changed in fifty years. Sex is still the most available currency and there are always so many of us trying to get somewhere fast, and so many like James and Fantini willing to cash the checks. I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
“You knew?”
“Yes, that’s my punishment I suppose.”
“So what do we do?”
“You want to work on another Rosen picture, you do as you’re told.” Mike pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. They both stood around feeling glum. About them people wafted in and out of the house.
Suddenly Gil said, “How’s about we forget it for the moment. I feel like a swim. Can we get any swimming stuff do you think?”
“Yes, they have loads. There’s some bathing huts behind those trees there.”
They made their way along the pool threading through the grouped party-goers, and then across the impeccably cropped lawn to the cluster of huts Mike pointed out. An attendant flunky gave them some very brief speedos and indicated a changing cubicle. Inside there were two other men undressing. Gil changed quickly and then went outside to wait for Mike. When Mike came out, he found Gil on the lawn doing handstands and marveled that his friend should be so easygoing as to have forgotten what ultimately awaited him. But then, Gil didn’t know Fantini’s reputation.
Gil sprang back to his feet, eyes shining and yelled, “Last one in’s a fairy!” He set of toward the pool at a run with Mike on his heels. As it happened, Gil slipped and dove into the water half a length behind Mike. He was the better swimmer, though, and reached the other end of the pool well ahead. Mike stood up gasping for air, the water streaming from his plastered hair down his face. Gil laughed and pushed the locks back. For a second they looked into each other’s eyes, a moment of tenderness, then Gil jumped up and came down with both hands on Mike’s head, forcing him to duck under. Below the surface Mike grabbed hold of Gil’s legs and yanked with all his strength. Gil submerged in a cloud of fine bubbles.
Then they swam the length of the pool again, chasing each other. A number of men watched them enviously from the poolside. As Gil reached the lip of the deep end with both arms outstretched to heave himself out two men took hold of his arms. They lifted him easily and stood him on the stones at the water’s edge.
“What the fuck!”
“You must come,” said one forcibly.
“Who the hell are you? Where are you taking me?”
“Mr. Fantini, he want-a talk with you.”
Gil struggled to turn and see Mike, but they held him in a tight grip and frog-marched him over the lawn toward the side of the big house.
By the time Mike reached the end of the pool all he saw was their disappearing shadows.
The two men pushed Gil through a doorway and into a large, plushly furnished room. Rivulets of water fell f
rom his body, staining the expensive carpets, but the men didn’t seem to mind. They crossed the room and through another door into a corridor. One of Gil’s captors flung a door open and they descended steps into a dark basement. At the bottom, another door was opened. Gil found himself in a large room with white walls. A thick carpet adorned the floor and on it were scattered enormous cushions. Gil saw that wide leather straps were attached to the walls at intervals. Two sets held boys who didn’t look to be much older than Gil.
Sitting in the center on a pile of beanbags and surrounded by four virtually naked, heavily painted men, was Fantini, dressed in what looked like a Roman toga. Gil blinked at this bizarre scene. It was like something out of a Fellini movie. As they came in, Fantini looked up expectantly. He seemed delighted to see that Gil was only wearing the brief swimwear.
The two bruisers stood stiffly to attention, Gil still gripped firmly between them. A pool of water slowly spread across the carpet at Gil’s feet. The two in the harnesses watched uninterestedly, apparently unconcerned by their restraints. Fantini clapped his hands gleefully and beckoned. Gil was dragged forward and flung on the floor at the edge of the beanbags. He flicked the hair back from his eyes defiantly and was pleased to see a splash of water hit Fantini in the face. The producer wiped it angrily away and then broke into a smile which held small comfort for Gil.
“So,” he began, “you come to me already dressed for the part, or should I say, undressed for the part.” At this he threw his head back and burst into laughter at his own wit.
Gil knelt up angrily. “This is ridiculous. I just don’t believe this crap.” He started to get to his feet, but his guards pressed him down again.
Fantini was greedily taking in the sight, the firm young body, all the muscles finely glittering with droplets of water, the flat belly with its neat navel, the slight darkening of hairs around the waist of the speedos and the well formed bulge of the boy’s crotch. That on top of all this should sit a handsome, truculent, defiant American face was just too perfect for words. Fantini felt that Rosen had certainly got an eye for them and had done him proud this time. His gloating catamites obviously thought so too by the way they were ogling the lad.
Fantini waved a hand. Gil swore obscenely as one of the men took him in a hammerlock grip, both arms twisted behind his back. Gil tried kicking the guy in the balls but without much success. The other one brought out a leather thong and gagged him, choking off his spitting and swearing. Then they tied his hands with another leather strap.
“String him up for a bit,” Fantini commanded. Gil was forced into a strange leather contraption rather like the ones the two boys by the wall were wearing. Only this one had rings in its joints. As they wrapped its thongs around him, they pulled off the swimming trunks. There was an appreciative murmur from the cushions as Gil’s balls and cock fell free and hung limply. Two straps were fastened around his thighs, cutting into the flesh just under his scrotum.
When all the straps had been fastened into place, one of the minions walked to the other end of the room and reached up to the ceiling. Overhead there was a grid of metal poles. A set of pulleys ran on flanged wheels above one of the poles, from which dangled a long chain. The man grasped it and pulled the whole contraption up to the center of the room. Gil realized what the rings set into his imprisoning harness were for. They fixed the rings over a hook on the end of the chain and then hauled him off his feet. The harness scooped him up into a sitting position, but horizontally. He was completely helpless. He struggled to shout out but the gag was quite effective.
Fantini, chortling with anticipation, got to his feet and walked up to Gil. He was just the right height so that Fantini could fiddle around with him between his outspread legs. The producer contented himself at first with sliding his hands up and down the still damp flesh of Gil’s thighs. “Ah, trussed up like a chicken should be,” he said and his hands gently caressed Gil’s balls. “Such lovely firm young flesh.” The man drooled.
When Mike saw what had happened to Gil he became increasingly incensed. He went back to the changing huts, dried off quickly, and dressed. Then he grabbed up Gil’s clothes and went in search of Rosen. It took about ten minutes but finally he found him surrounded by an admiring gaggle of Italian youths, all trying to get parts as extras. Mike knew the scene well and could even tell which of the young men Rosen would probably go with.
When Rosen saw Mike he pushed through the sycophants. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded to know.
“Swimming,” said Mike shortly. “Listen, James, Fantini has had Gil kidnapped.”
Rosen laughed. “Don’t be so dramatic, you know how Fantini is. He has a flair for the theatrical.”
“Theatrical, my ass! Two hulks came and grabbed Gil right out of the pool and dragged him off. I didn’t know there was going to be any of that kind of shit!”
“He’ll come to no harm,” Rosen sniffed dismissively, and then added with a sour smile, “I’m sure Fantini will leave him with a few bits for you to play with later.”
“You cunt! You think you can do what you like with people. Now you fucking well get him out of there.”
Rosen stared at his boyfriend through slitted eyes.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Mike-baby, you’re beginning to get tedious. Why don’t you just go and have another swim and cool off. And don’t talk like that to me again, understand, otherwise, honeybunch, we’re through. Get it?”
Mike’s anger overflowed. He flung a punch at Rosen.
It wasn’t well aimed in the heat of the moment, but it caught Rosen in the stomach and the surprise rather than the force caused him to sit down. The group of Italian camp-followers all fell silent.
“We’re through anyway,” Mike said, almost sobbing with the power of his emotions.
Rosen started to pick himself up and for the moment Mike thought he was going to hit him, but instead the strongly built producer ground out, through his teeth, “You’re not only through, you’re fired, and your little friend.”
Mike gave a short laugh. “Don’t be fucking stupid. You try that and you’ll be hearing from the Union.” And with that parting shot he pushed his way through the Italians and ran toward the house.
In the massive entrance hall he asked for the telephone and was shown into a study. He tapped in the hotel’s number and asked for Sheila. After a wait that seemed like hours he heard her voice. “Sheila love, can you give me Angelo’s home number? You’ve got it on the crew list, haven’t you?”
Sheila said she had and read it out. He cut her off in mid-sentence and rapidly punched in the new number, hoping that Angelo would be in, but doubting it. The phone rang at the other end and he waited. A woman answered in Italian. Mike struggled to make himself understood. Yes Angelo was in. Then the boy spoke. Mike told him what he wanted.
Gil was beginning to feel faint from hanging in the harness. Fantini had tried unsuccessfully to arouse a hard-on. However that seemed to be but a mere warmup. Gil’s participation didn’t seem to be essential to the man’s enjoyment. One of the painted catamites had produced a big bull whip and stood nearby, flexing it. Another was greasing up a rubber-molded cock shape that must have been all of eleven inches in circumference. Gil could just see this going on from the corner of his eye. Fantini was getting off on just watching Gil’s reactions. Gil had never seen a disembodied cock before, let alone heard the word “dildo.” The giant thing was terrifying and he had little doubt as to what use they were going to put this frighteningly strange and yet familiar looking object.
Fantini came to stand between his legs again. In his hand he held a small jug. He tipped the jug and a thin stream of cream poured from the delicate spout. Gil felt its coldness as it spread out over his stomach and ran down over his cock and balls. Fantini licked his lips salaciously and then started to lap like a cat at the cream, his hands cu
pping Gil’s thighs. He made his tongue busy, slowly working his way down to the tip of Gil’s cock, where it lay limply on his pubic hair. Even the feeling of Fantini’s tongue on the tip of his tool did nothing to awake arousal. Fantini didn’t seem to mind. He was enjoying himself anyway.
The dildo was prepared. Fantini licked up the last of the cream with evident satisfaction and stood back. The catamite came up to stand behind Gil. It was not being able to see that was the worst. He felt fingers, slick with lubricant, touch his ass, feeling for the pucker and finding it. Gil drew his breath as a finger explored the entrance. Then he felt the cold rubbery texture of the thing, pressed so gently against the valley of his ass. He could feel its size and knew that no one could take in anything so vast. It was just impossible, but they were going to try anyway. Fantini stood gloatingly rubbing his hands with anticipation as the minions teased and played with their prisoner.
“No, we wait with that,” Fantini suddenly announced. “I still see defiance in these pretty eyes. I think he needs some corrective treatment first. Fredo, the whip, I think.”
Gil’s eyes widened in horror as the one with the bull whip unloosed it and cracked it experimentally in the air. It made a vicious sound. The man did it again, grinning hugely as he approached Gil’s helpless body. He took a stance, carefully adjusting himself for the optimum position. Then he flexed his arm, drawing out the moment. Gil saw the whip hand and the sting trailing down to the ground and prepared himself for its cruel bite.
At that moment there was a commotion from outside and a thundering of feet on the basement stairs. The door flew open. Fantini swore and moved around Gil to see what was wrong. Gil heard a screech as one of the catamites received a punch to the jaw. Then all hell burst loose as the two guards started fighting with their mysterious assailants. Fantini backed off in alarm. Gil saw a movement out of the comer of his eyes. It was Mike!
His English buddy dropped a bundle he was carrying on the floor before hurling himself at the obese producer, taking the man in a strangle hold that bore him to the floor. Gil saw him savagely punch down twice. Fantini collapsed.
