I opened my eyes, squinting at the beams of clear light reflecting from a window onto a bright white wall. Over my brow, I shielded pupils with a forearm. Back and forth I looked, trying to work out my whereabouts. A single brushed nickel lamp arched from behind the bed's side all the way to the center. Above that, a polished mahogany wood bladed ceiling fan descended at least ten feet hovering motionless eight feet above me. The white leather bed frame's headboard continued to the foot, framing the mattress like wings. Beyond the bed's foot, mahogany wood flooring overlaid the floor to every stark white wall, and down past my feet a railing, twenty feet beyond the railing, a giant mosaic of large steel-framed windows descended.
I drew a deep breath filled with the aroma of bacon, pancakes, maple syrup, and butter. Flexing my stomach, bent at the hips, I lifted my upper body from the bed, rubbing my eye sockets. A yawn and groan escaped me as I stretched. The thin blanket draped over slides down, exposing my bare breast and stomach.
From the lower level, I hear a familiar voice, "Mijo, are you awake?"
"Papa?" I said. "Where am I?"
I hear Paolo's footsteps ascending the metal spiral staircase in the far corner of the room. "Buon Giorno. How did you sleep?"
Nothing but bright orange boxer briefs clothed Paolo, muscular arms, defined chest, and hinting sixpack on confident display. Straight lines of light between the vertical blinds over French doors leading to a lush patio arched and bent over the shape of his body as he paced toward me.
"Great, uh, where are we?" I asked.
"We brought you to our loft downtown, after, after, uh," Paolo paused and scanned me up and down.
"You need to eat something," Paolo pointed at a white robe past the entrance to an enormous bathroom opposite the railed loft. "There's a robe if you want it. Breakfast is ready. Come before it gets cold, yes?"
I nodded my head and smiled at him. The warmth of his grin slowed my heart and relaxed my flexed muscules.
Paolo stood for several moments, as if waiting. I jolted, understanding he wanted me to get up now. Legs swung over the side, past the leather wings. As I stood, the sheet pulled from my hips. Naked, I automatically cupped my hands, shielding my soft dick, and recognizing that I couldn't
"Relax, don't be embarrassed," he said.
Stiff, I approximated how I might act if I were comfortable and snagged the robe from the hook just inside the tiled bathroom, my dick swaying as I closed the front and tied it. Paolo stared at me, hummed a brief moan as if about to consume a decadent meal, moistening one lip at a time.
"Come, Mijo," he said, and I followed him down the tight staircase.
"Bret," Jake called out to me. "How are you feeling?" An easy, broad smile dawned on his face, a short red manicured beard framing it. I felt my free cock tighten at the sight of him shirtless behind the cast iron metal stove. Waist narrow, but not small, stomach and chest shaved, the rest of him just as toned as his biceps. At their home, I'd only seen them in their office attire.
Jake saw me staring. "I just realized that you've never seen us like this," he said. "I didn't think about it. Our weekends here tend to be, uh, less formal. I'll grab a shirt and shorts."
"No, uh," I said, louder than I intended. "Uh, it's fine. Don't change for, uh, me."
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"He's fine, mio amore," Paolo added.
Jake nodded, then peered at the pan, flipping a sunny-side-up egg. "How do you like yours?"
"What?" I asked.
"Your eggs," Jake said.
"Uh, scrambled?" I answered, my tone uncertain.
"Ever tried over-medium?" Jake asked.
"I, uh--"
"Obviously not," Paolo added. "Try, it's good."
"Ok, yeah," I agreed.
Jake loaded three plates with eggs and walked to the rectangular white-topped acrylic table below a light fixture with a spherical chrome center, and thin chrome pipes protruding from the center, bare warm lights gleaming at the end of each.
I watched them cut the eggs with butter knives and forks, taking hold of the utensils, looking at how they held them, then trying to adjust my grip to match. Orange oozed when they sliced through the yoke. I looked down, focusing on my egg, hiding my revulsion. A quarter of an egg suspended before my face, impaled with every fork prong, before it reached my mouth, I took a gulp, determined to consume it and avoid offending Jake.
The warm spongy egg white squeezed against my tongue, a hint of salt from cheese, and heat of the pepper. I chewed the piece, the runny yoke enveloping my buds in a rich savory satisfaction. A shiver went down my spine.
Eyes closed, I rolled it around in my mouth, and swallowed, "How does it, uh, taste like, uh, that?" I asked in utter bewilderment.
They faced me and chucked.
Paolo finished, his mouth full. "Just eggs, Mijo."
"Not exactly, a bit more accoutrement than your everyday egg," Jake said, smiling at me in delight.
"It's really good," I gushed.
"I'm glad you like it," Jake added. "It was so easy," he looked at Paolo, "Not everyone around here is easy to please."
Paolo stared at me. "Don't know what he talks about." And took a sip from a fluted glass, half filled with a vivid orange liquid.
Jake chuckled, and Paolo choked on the orange juice, covering his mouth with the wrist holding the flute.
I smiled and cleared my throat. "Where is Stanley?"
"At swim, Bello."
"At swim, but it's Sat--" I caught myself. "Oh, club swim."
"We get you to all ourselves," Paolo reached over and patted my hand.
A tingling wave dispersed from my lower stomach in both directions.
"Did you tell Stanley about, uh, about what happened? About, uh--"
"No, we think it's best if you tell him," Jake said.
