What Led to That

August, 1923, Venice, Italy

The Galloways, a British couple with a passing acquaintance of Lady Elizabeth when she was married to Lord Aynsley; the bishop of Milan; and the Austrian industrialist, Josef, the Baron von Holst, were sitting on the beach of the luxury resort hotel on the Adriatic near the city of Venice, Italy. The Galloways were chatting away with Elizabeth—or trying to—as she devoted much of her attention to the baron, a bigger than life, charismatic man in his robust mid thirties, who dominated the group without half trying.

The baron was well over six feet tall, broad of chest and not so broad of waist, with aristocratic features and bearing, with a strong jaw line, somewhat florid complexion, and a mane of reddish brown hair, which also cascaded over the dip in the top of his one-piece swimming costume. His thighs were those of a sportsman, solid-muscle beefy, his hands and feet were huge, and the bulge in the crotch of his swimming costume was as well. Elizabeth, thinking of him as a fine stallion, was nearly melting from the sight of him sitting in the folding canvas beach chair, which was straining to manage his bulk. At thirty-six, the man was at the height of his career and sexual power, as anyone looking at him could discern. He also was recognized as a man you didn't say "no" to.

The other man present, the bishop of Milan, must, Elizabeth thought, have ice running through his veins, as he wore a black cassock, buttoned to his throat, as he sat beside the baron. He was a cadaverous man who Elizabeth thought of as the Grim Reaper each time she saw him. Tall and thin, he was dark complexioned and had a flowing mane of jet-black hair. Despite all of the darkness, he wasn't sweating under the strong sun.

A sharply hooked nose spoiled any chance of anyone considering him handsome, and the expressions of his face exuded secrecy, judgmentalism, and "don't mess with me" warning. His eyes were a cold, steel blue that gave the impression of seeing and stripping naked everything and everyone. His primary idiosyncrasy was that the nails on his long, slender fingers were unusually long and were painted jet black. As with most Italians, he spoke with his hands, and anyone in a conversation with him had trouble concentrating on his face rather than the fluttering hands. He showed every evidence of using his hands purposely in that vein—to deny everyone access to his true thoughts by watching his eyes.

Whereas the Galloways were focused on Elizabeth and Elizabeth was trying to focus on the baron, both the baron and the bishop had eyes only for the figure of the young man swimming far off the beach in long, expert strokes.

With a sigh, Mrs. Galloway rose from her canvas chair, which wasn't easy for her—she was an overlarge woman. This was much in contrast with Lady Elizabeth, who was buxom but otherwise trim of figure and dressed in the highest style and deepest cut of swimming fashion of the time. At forty, she looked much younger, and had gone to every effort to do so.

"I believe I am in for a nap before high tea," Mrs. Galloway said. "Will you join us on the hotel verandah for that at 5:00, Lady Elizabeth?" With a "humph," Galloway, also rose. He was in steel and would have preferred to stay and speak with the munitions manufacturer, Josef von Holst, if the man had paid any attention to him at all and if Mrs. Galloway would have permitted it.

"Lady Elizabeth will be having high tea with me," the baron said, his voice a deep baritone with an edge of "to be obeyed" command to it.

Flustered, because this was the first that she had heard of the appointment—but clearly pleased—Elizabeth turned to Ann Galloway. "Perhaps tomorrow. But a nap does sound good. I believe I will take one as well. So, Baron . . ."

"I will have us served in the small gazebo in the forested glade behind the hotel. At 5:00," the baron answered. And that was that for the Galloways and Lady Elizabeth, who, rummaging around in the tented cabana behind them for their beach apparel, started their progress off the beach and toward the hotel.

The baron momentarily watched the hour-glass form of the handsome Elizabeth move away, her buttocks swaying against each other in her stately gait, before turning his attention back to the swimmer in the distance.

"Those orbs beg for breeding," the baron muttered.

The bishop raised his eyebrows but not necessarily for the reason one supposed. "I could say the same for the son. He's a handsome young man," the bishop said.

"Yes, very handsome," the baron agreed. "Ripe even."

"I would agree with that," the bishop said. "Very desirable. He would go for a fortune in the Turkish souks."

"What do you know of buying young men in a Turkish souk?" the baron asked.

"Enough," the bishop answered with a sly little smile. "But those two. What do you know of them? She hardly looks old enough to be his mother."

"And yet she is, I have learned."

"You have learned?"

"My solicitors have been busy since I met the Winslow woman and her ripe son, Paul. American—the woman is. The young man is hers but the other half of him is British. Lord Aynsley's son. The two are divorced. Aynsley's family insisted all along on a British wife. He married the American long enough for her family to refurbish Aynsley's Rest. He's married again now. The son is nineteen. She's kept him tied to her apron strings. Only now, this fall, starting at Cambridge—at the father's insistence. I think the woman would take the young man back to Boston if she could. Very dominating. And he appears to be totally submissive to her."

"Submissiveness is not necessarily a bad thing."

"No, it's not. And he's a saucy thing. I get every indication from him that he would be interested if set free of her. The young man needs to be released. He needs to be dominated."

"I would be interested too."

"I'll keep that in mind, of course. There is some help you could be to me in exchange—later in the year. You could help me now by needing to go back to the hotel for a nap. I see that he is swimming back to the beach."

The priest sighed. "As long as you keep me in mind. You of course are going to break him."

"Yes, of course. He's ripe for it. He will thank me for it one day."

"Now? Here?"

"Yes, now. In the cabana, I think. Your time will come Giuseppe. For now you need a nap."

"I cannot watch from afar?"

"Not the first time, no. I may need to use force that isn't for your eyes."

"You would be surprised what my eyes would enjoy. And the woman? She has her eye on you. Did the Aynsleys leave her any of her money?"

"Apparently that was more than enough to sustain her—and a husband as well."

"You lost your wife last year, didn't you?"

"Yes, she never recovered from childbirth," the baron answered. If there was any regret in his voice, the bishop couldn't discern it. "Left me with a boy to raise. Every man needs an heir."

"And a playmate to spare," the bishop said, his eyes still on the young Paul Winslow, who was turning in languid circles off the beach. "A chit to play in the game, as it were. You will, of course, seduce the mother too—as camouflage."

"I'm surprised you're not a cardinal yet," the baron said, "as perceptive as you are. As I said, I will keep you in mind. Now, withdraw, if you please."

The baron was alone, standing in the sand in front of his chair as Paul Winslow, stumbled up to the beach through the surf. The young man was all smiles; tousled blond hair; trim, well-muscled body; sunny disposition; and flirty aspect.

"Where did everyone go?" he asked, giving the baron a speculative look. Von Holst took the opportunity of the young man standing in water to his ankles in swirling surf and looking at him while making some effort to maintain his balance to shrug his shoulders out of the top of his swimming costume and let the waist drop down to the curve of his lower belly, showing a magnificent torso of muscular pecs and washboard abs—providing the perfect form that Greek warriors beat their breastplates in. Unconsciously—perhaps—Paul shrugged out of the top of his suit as well, possibly unconsciously, making a man-to-man gesture.

Von Holst couldn't quite decide whether the young man's flirting was unconscious or purposeful. And it didn't matter to him one way or the other. He very much thought that the young man was uninitiated, though, and that did matter to him a lot.

"They've all gone to the hotel—for naps. They will be asleep for an hour or more. Leaving just us."

"Leaving just us," Paul repeated, his voice breathless now.

Josef pushed the front of his suit down to where it dipped just below where the curly reddish hair of his bush ran into the root of his thick cock, showing enough of the cock to reveal its thick girth. This was as close to the flashing of his equipment that he felt safe showing on the beach. If the young man was going to run, it would be now. If he hadn't been signaling interest in the baron for two days he was a hopelessly naïve young man.

The baron looked down at his own bush and then looked up at Paul, still standing in the surf, gratified to see that Paul's eyes had gone there too. The young man was trembling. His eyes had gone large.

"Come into the cabana with me," the baron commanded.

Paul didn't move, but the baron could hear the low moan and see how the young man was trembling.

"What for? Why should we go into the cabana?"

"You know what for." Josef stepped forward and gently took Paul's elbow. "Come into the cabana with me. It's time to stop this teasing. You want this to happen. I can see into your heart. I know you've dreamed of it. Today is the day."

Paul whimpered something unintelligible—he probably didn't know himself what he said—and allowed Von Holst to walk him to the door of the cabana.

Once both of them were inside the tent structure, Josef turned Paul to face him, pulled back his arm, and whipped it back, backhanding Paul across the face and making the young man stagger back and come down on the small of his back on a divan. Paul lay there, propped up on his elbows and staring, with confusion and hurt, at Josef, as the older man turned and quickly tied the flap of the tent closed.

"You won't want to fight me," the baron growled.

Paul, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, continued to watch, immobilized by fear, shock, and surprise, as Josef picked up objects as he moved to the divan. The young man shuddered and began to chatter in a low voice, ineffectually tossing out questions and objections, while Josef was busy binding the young man's wrists together with the rope belt of his beach robe and hooking them on a hook at the top side of the divan. The chatter was stopped with Josef backhanded Paul again, and the young man fell back onto the divan, his arms now trapped above his head, his eyes wide open in shock.

"You want this," the baron said.

Von Holst, crouched over Paul and between his legs, dove for Paul's mouth with his, brutally kissing the young man and sucking up the blood at the corner of his mouth. Coming out of the kiss, Josef had the sash of Paul's beach robe and a handkerchief at the ready. The handkerchief went into Paul's mouth and the sash was used as a gag to keep it in place.

Paul's eyes were bulging and he was moaning and whimpering through the gag. Josef motioned that he would strike him again if he didn't calm down and Paul subsided into low panting and moaning. He was trembling as the Austrian pulled the swimming costume off his legs and then did so with Paul's own, standing there between Paul's thighs and wagging an enormously thick erection with his hand.

"The teasing stops. We both know what you want. In your heart, I know you are a whore. You are going to take it all," Von Holst said in a gruff voice. Paul tried as best he could to writhe off to the side, but the baron grabbed his hips on both sides and held them steady. "It will be harder if you fight," he growled. "Relax and open as much as you can to me."

With a whimper Paul quieted down. Von Holst grabbed underneath the young man's thighs and pushed them up into Paul's chest, rolling the young man's buttocks up. The Austrian went down on his knees and he spent the best part of the next twenty minutes giving Paul head—awarded quickly with an ejaculation—sucking on his balls, and eating out his hole. Slowly the young virgin began to open to him.

He didn't open enough, though, that would make the first penetration easy. Paul sobbed behind his gag, panted hard, and moved his head from side to side, as Von Holst, with great determination spent the next ten minutes cramming his thick cock in the virginal passage. When he was in and started to stroke, Paul collapsed entirely. His eyes rolled back in his head and, if it hadn't been for the pain, he would have passed out.

Slowly, ever so slowly, though pleasure was mixing with and then taking over from the pain. Paul's passage, albeit a tight fit, opened to the thick cock, and, involuntarily—or because he had no prior experience in this—Paul began to move his pelvis with the stroking of the cock. This, in fact, was what he had wanted for some time. That it was being taken from him so brutally and with bondage took guilt away from him. His passage wasn't as virginal as one would suppose. No man had been up there, but other objects had—some even nearly as thick as Josef's cock.

As the two moved together, Paul's passage went slack enough to handle Josef. It even got to where Josef wanted a tighter ride and he brought Paul's legs together from where he'd held them spread and raised at the ankles, held to the baron's shoulder at one side. This move tightened Paul's passage so that, with each thrust, Josef got the sensation of forcing the channel.

"There, I knew you wanted it. Opened right up for it," Josef growled as he set up a vigorous, deep thrusting that Paul was meeting with counterthrusts. Paul came again and then Josef did, as well.

When he had come, Josef leaned over, took the gag out of Paul's mouth, and came in for a kiss. The way Paul responded to the kiss told the baron he had won—that it had been a barrier Paul had wanted to get across and that the young man was his now for the bidding.

Satisfied in the knowledge that he'd won, Von Holst reached up and released the young man's wrists. He stood back from the divan, still facing Paul, cupping his still half-hard cock and his balls, displaying his powerful body to Paul, who lay there, panting hard. Josef waited to see what the young man would do. Would he bolt and then have to be dealt with before he got to the hotel, or was he totally won?

"You wanted this, didn't you? All of it. You needed to have it taken from you. You were too frightened to do what you wanted. And you wanted me to take it from you, didn't you—brutally, totally? That's why you didn't return to the beach until I was alone here. I have given you what you wanted, the way you wanted it, haven't I?"

Snuffling up a sob, Paul admitted it. "Yes."

"Do you want to leave—to go up to the hotel, or do you want this again?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Paul came up on his elbows. Then slowly, deliberately, he brought his feet up to dig into the bottom edge of the divan at each side, his legs spread. He raised his buttocks, rolling up his pelvis, presenting his ass for a straight cock shot.

"Good. From now on when I tell you to present, that's the position I want you to take. But say it. You have to say it," Von Holst said, his voice already laced with victory.

"Again, please," Paul whimpered in a small voice.

The baron didn't take Paul the second time as offered, though. He wanted to remain totally in command. He sat on the end of the divan, Paul in his lap, facing him, Paul's legs bent and spread around Von Holst's waist. The older man's cock buried to the hilt in Paul's passage.

"Do it yourself. Fuck yourself on it. You will always do what I tell you, won't you?"

"Yes," Paul acknowledged in a small voice. He wrapped his arms around Von Holst's chest and the baron did the same to him, as Paul, using the leverage of his feet, began to rise and fall on the cock. The baron possessed Paul's lips and, breaking the kiss that Paul returned without reservation, nudged Paul's torso to arch back so that he could reach the young man's throat and nipples with his tongue and teeth.

Paul sighed and continued fucking himself on the thick cock.

He lay there on the divan, panting and whimpering, His legs bent and spread to alleviate the dull pain and shame in his gut, shocked at what had been done to him, concerned and upbraiding himself for what he had, eventually, done in response. His mind was screaming, never again, but his eyes were slitted and he was licking his dry lips as he watched the baron pull on his swimming costume and robe.

"Get up and dress," the baron growled. "I haven't hurt you; I've released you. You are a whore at heart. I have come to you today, but the next time I will call you and you will come—and soon, very soon, you will come for it on your own. I know your heart. You are a wanton whore for men. You just needed to be released to it."

Shuddering and not able to maintain eye contact, Paul struggle off the divan and reached for his swimming costume.

As they were leaving the tent, Josef took Paul's elbow in a firm painful grip and said, "Midnight. If you are mine now, you will knock on my hotel room door at midnight. I will begin to teach you what you need to know."

"Yes, sir," Paul mumbled.

"And if I share you with other men, you will obey."

There was a slight hesitancy to this.

"Or I will not fuck you again," the baron said. "I repeat. If I share you with other men, you will obey."

"Yes, sir," Paul now said, with a sigh of resignation and without an ounce of intent. He'd say what he had to to get out of this man's clutches now. He would go back to his room and think on this . . . on all of it. He was sure he would respond differently once his head had cleared and he could think of what was right . . . and proper. It was true that he had fantasized this. But now it was done and he need not be bothered by such wanton thoughts again.

* * * *

The gazebo where the baron and Lady Elizabeth took tea that afternoon was very private once the baron had shooed the wait staff away.

The two talked about nothing much, although Elizabeth felt herself breathing hard as the baron moved in ever closer to her. Without warning, the tea half drunk, the baron pushed the cart aside and leaned in close to Elizabeth, their lips nearly meeting. Elizabeth's eyes were dilated and showing a mix of distress, uncertainty—and the unmistakable tinge of lust and want.

"You're a beautiful woman," the baron murmured. "I want to possess you. I

will

possess you."

Elizabeth would have demurred—at least later she convinced herself she would have—if his lips weren't crushing hers right after that. And if his arm didn't go around her back and hold her to him. And if his other hand didn't rip at the buttons of her bodice and expose her breasts to his squeezing grasp. And if his mouth hadn't gone to her nipples and started to teeth and suck them. And if his hand didn't drop to gathering her skirts up, gliding up her thigh, and ripping at her undergarments. And if when his mouth went back to possessing her lips and stifling any opposition, the thick fingers of his big hand didn't expertly play her folds and clit and then plunge up into her cunt and stroke her hard and deep. He didn't so much make love to her as he conquered and possessed her. It took her breath away.

And then if, with little time given from the beginning of the breathtakingly forceful assault, the baron hadn't come out of the chair, fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, pressed himself into her where she was slouched in her chair, run his forearms under her thighs and lifted and spread them, and then plunged inside her with his thick cock, and fucked her hard and long, as she clutched his shoulder blades with hands that opened and closed in rhythm to the thrusts of his cock and moaned the ecstasy of the total fuck.