[
"Glass House Initiation" is the first of six stories in
The Glass House
anthology providing tales of the various men who come to the rental Glass House on the banks of and seemingly floating over Lake Como, Italy, for male-to-male extreme sexual sport and release. The final story will post by the end of the first week in November.
]
Whereas most people take their vacations for rest or experience, I take mine to hunt. I hunt young men who are secretly seeking but are indecisive or fearful and I take them from frustration and indecision into the open. I have an uncanny awareness that what I give them--how I use them--is what they need. I have yet to have a failure. It was thus, with this in mind, that I booked a vacation in The Glass House on Italy's Lake Como shore.
The Glass House on the southern banks of Lake Como, near the village of Colico, was, many were bold to say, an in-your-face standout--and eyesore even, to traditionalists--among all of the architecturally exquisite examples of earlier eras shoreside mansions dotting this northern section of the finger lake. I picked it out to rent for my holidays precisely for this "in-your-face" reason. That and because of the secret it held inside.
The house I rented, essentially a two-story cube made completely of glass--walls, floors, and ceilings--over a ground-story rock foundation, was eye arresting, not only from the lake but from the SS36 lake rim road as well. It wasn't large. The first story, nearly hanging over the rocks at the lake's edge--giving the impression when you were in the house that you actually were floating over the lake--was one large living-space square, the living room and dining room running into a kitchen, separated from it only by a kitchen island. Behind the house, on the western side, on the shoreline, was a rock-floored terrace with a small swimming pool in the center. Above the living level, reached by an open, glass-treaded staircase were two bedrooms, each with a full bath. Only the baths, tucked in on the land side of the house were walled by anything but clear glass, and even their walls were constructed of translucent glass blocks that distorted but didn't obliterate what lay within. All of the other walls--to the hall, the other bedroom, and the outside--were clear glass. The floor between the first and second floors was made of clear acrylic. There were sun-shade adjustments inside the double-paned glass, but, other than that, there was no curtaining. There was to be no opportunity to hide anything from the world outside. The furnishings of the house were minimal, low-slung, sleek, and white.
Ostensibly, the house was entirely open and transparent to the outside world.
Lit up by night, the house was a completely open lantern, as seen from either the lake or the land. Even during the day, little therein was hidden from view. The building stood out for attention, either in the day or night, and declared it was totally open to view. It was not, I thought, anything that supported secrecy. Secrecy was the enemy to these short vacations I took from my New York studio. All was meant to come out into the open. All was to be readily seen and experienced and enjoyed in honest acknowledgement of who and what we were.
This flaunting of the openness, the transparency, though, was all a tease. The house hid a very dark secret, as did I from my usual life.
I was delighted that I found a house that not only screamed in the face of repressed tradition but that expressed all that I was about here in contrast to how I presented in New York.
On my second day at Lake Como, having survived jetlag, I left The Glass House and walked along the lakeside until I found an open-air café facing the lake and separated from the water only by a pedestrian pathway. Here I sat, placing my camera on the table--I went nowhere without my camera, my lens upon the world and my means for opening up the world--and drank coffee and assessed the young men walking by on their various errands. I assessed each one for beauty, innocence of bearing, and age--and accessibility. How old were they? Eighteen or nineteen was best. Did they have the eyes of a repressed seeker? There were those who said you had to find a rare, acceptable young man, but I had found that, if you identified him at the right moment of his narcissism and exploration of his sexuality, you could turn almost any beautiful young man to your wishes.
Gino, who was revealed to be the desirable age--nineteen--almost fell into my lap--literally. He was gliding by on a bike and fell off it right beside me, going down on his knees directly in front of where I sat, my chair turned toward the lake. In this position, if I had been unzipped and exposed, he need only to have been dipping his head a bit, and he would be giving me a blow job. I cupped his face as he went down--as far as he could see to protect his head, but, in my amusement, also to put him in the position of throating my erection if I had been ready for it. He put a hand on my knee to avoid going flat on his face but jerked it away as if I were a hot stove when he realized he was touching a man.
I took his unceremonious arrival and bowing to me as a sign that Gino was my late-afternoon entertainment. My arousal was only piqued by the thought, looking at the beautiful, small-stature youth, that he was virginal and would have no idea how to give me an adequate blow job. It wasn't Gino's mouth I wanted, though. I wanted his body--fully in my control and serving my desires.
Eighteen- and nineteen-year old youths of proper inclination were malleable enough to give you anything you wanted if you knew how to train them. I had an uncanny ability to assess when a young man was approachable--and Gino was. Approachable not just for sex but for so much more.
I had seen him gliding toward me on his bike from down the pathway along the lakeshore and must accept much of the responsibility for his fall. He was a beautiful young man, as I was finding all young Italian men of the Lake Como region seemed to be. Wearing athletic shorts slit up to the waistband on each side, showing he was wearing a silk jock underneath, and a loose athletic T-shirt, cut deep at the arms and neck and loose enough to billow in the breeze, providing glimpses of his hard, tanned chest and nibs. All of the clothing was form fitting. He was on display and proudly aware that he was. It was easy to see he was perfectly formed, with an olive complexion, a ready smile, and a shy, innocent look about him. He wasn't a tall boy. He had black, curly hair; dark, downcast, eyes; and generous lips--a willowy beauty.
As he approached me on his bike, I saw that he was looking closely at me too, assessing me. I had every reason to believe he would let me use him, given the chance.
I was a professional fashion photographer. I took up my camera and clicked off shots of him as he biked toward me. He noticed what I was doing. That put him off his stride, and I'm sure that's why he tumbled on the path right next to where I was sitting.
I realized there was a reason I thought of the young man taking me in his mouth when he was kneeling before me from the fall. It was the look he gave me, gazing up into my face. It was a seeker's look. There was pain there, certainly, from the scrape his knee had received in the fall, but there was something else too--a memory of how I felt when I was his age, virginal but wanting something from a man. The youth wanted a man's cock. I instinctively knew this. I had always had an inherent skill in discerning this. I also had a rich history in successfully taking advantage of the knowledge.
He almost surely had contemplated the prospect of going under a man. I could have him. I decided I
would
have him. I reached out, seemingly to keep him from falling further to the ground, my hand cupping and caressing, ever so briefly, his cheek. The look he gave me was unprotected, revealing. He didn't shrink from my caressing hand. He waited for me to take my hand away.
I could have this virgin. I
would
have this virgin. Instinctively I knew he was still a virgin to a man's cock just as I knew he was ripe to be cured of that impediment. There hesitancy and a sense of guilt--the guilt of now knowing what he wanted but not yet surrendering to it-- in his look. He would be grateful to me for freeing him of his limiting burden.
