"You must relax and trust me. It's for your own good. You must be very still or there could be damage."
I did trust the count. What other reason would I have come with him to this isolated area of his vineyard estate, to this shepherd's hut, when he said it would be a very special, a dangerous, taking.
Still, I had blurted the question when, my bare buttocks resting on his thighs, both of us naked and facing each other, he bound my wrists behind me and tethered my ankles together behind the small of my back.
"You must trust me," he whispered in that smooth "he is to be obeyed" baritone voice of his, the impeccable English graced with sexy Italian inflection. A voice that had seduced me and dominated me in the vine fields. Spoken from a magnificent, mature, deeply tanned, hirsute, and muscular body. "I want to take you to ultimate pleasure, but you must trust me and give me your all."
He took my mouth in his in a sweet, deep kiss, even as one of his hand, the fingers long and slender, with curls of black hair above the knuckles, grasped our cocks together, now both in semi hardness and growing with his grip. I was long and cut but he was longer, thicker, uncut. I gave him a low moan as he stroked the cocks together, frotting them and making them fill out and harden. When he released me from the kiss, he leaned back, and I tongued down his throat to the matting of salt and pepper hair swirling on his pecs and around his taut nipples. He sighed as I tongued and suck on the nipples, giving me a false sense of control.
There was no controlling the count, though. He demanded total surrender in the coupling. We both knew I would submit fully to him.
He sighed for me again, as I took the gold medallion on the chain around his neck into my mouth and sucked on it. One of his hands glided down the small of my back and down, into the crack between my cheeks, finding my opening and entering me. I focused my attention on the invading fingers and the rubbing of our cocks together.
"Oh, fuck, don't make me wait," I whimpered. It was involuntarily voiced. When I'd said this before, he'd lingered in taking me, just to show me who was in charge. But he had taken fully—total victory; taking no prisoners.
He didn't make me wait now, though. The hand cupping my buttocks pressed up, nudging me to rise on his body. The other hand left our cocks and gripped one of my butt cheeks, pulling me into him. My smooth belly moved up against the hairiness of his chest and I released the medallion from my mouth as I arched my chest back. I felt him at my rim—the gold ball piercing at his cock tip and the loose rim skin of his uncut cock pressing insistently into me. The foreskin spread back over the cockhead as he entered me, and I shuddered and cried out the pain-pleasure of being breached without being fully prepared for the thickness of the invasion.
"Make all of the noise you want, little one," he murmured in that rich voice of his. "There is no one to hear us."
I realized how vulnerable I was then. Deep into his estate, in the ruins of a shepherd's hut, bound at wrists and ankles, impaled on his shaft. Trust him. I must trust him.
The cock was slowly working its way up into me, pressing my walls aside, my passage walls slowly, reluctantly giving way to the thick demands of him. The cock drew back a bit and then a small thrust upward into me again, the loose skin of the uncut cock providing a sensation of soft give over the steely hardness of the insistent shaft that lay beneath it. I gasped, and looked wildly outside the door of the hut, across the rolling Tuscan hills, looking for any sign of help and rescue that was not to come.
Trust him, trust him, I set as a mantra in my mind, as the guardian doors to the core of me continue to unlock and slide open to the invasion of his cock, deep up inside me.
"Relax. Open to me. Give yourself to me. Trust me."
He was deep inside. His hands were gripping my butt cheeks, spreading them and kneading them. He began to pump, thrusting his cock up into me, taking long strokes, the looseness of his foreskin over the steely hardness of the underlying shaft.
"Give it to me. Fuck yourself on it," he demanded in a silky voice barely covering the steely will of noble aristocrat underneath of the ancient family accustomed to being obeyed, to get its way, to be permitted its pleasures.
He held there, steady, providing the shaft for me to ride. With a whimper I began rising and falling on the cock. He couldn't be still for long. He began to thrust cruelly up inside me again. I Met his upward thrusts with downward thrusts until, with a jerk and a cry we came together, he deep inside me and me up into the hair of his belly.
We held there, panting, me wondering if this was to be it. It was special, yes, but it wasn't what he had hinted at; it didn't require me being bound. There had been nothing dangerous about it; it more or less had been what we'd been doing for weeks. There was nothing here requiring trust—which made it all the easier for me to give him the trust.
* * * *
From the very first time, I had given in to him immediately when he told me to open my legs to him and trust him. Mixing work with travel in my sophomore summer at Dartmouth, I was working a large-estate vineyard with other summer workers, stripped to the waist and sweating under the Tuscan sun, when the owner of the vineyard, the count, rode up on a magnificent white stallion to watch us work. He too was magnificent, commanding, aristocratic, dressed out in elegant riding gear, holding a riding crop loosely over the front of the saddle, and looking intently down between the rows of vines on wire fences. I stood up from my labors and gazed intently back at him.
Within those brief moments, volumes of interest, possibility, and intent passed between us. Mere days later, he was back, singling me out of the workers, lifting a hamper with bottles of wine and packages of bread and cheese in it, and inviting me to a repast under the trees in a copse out of sight of any of the workers in the fields.
I, of course, knew what he wanted. I wanted it to. I had come to Italy to lie under Italian men. Older, experienced, at least slightly rough men. I had already gone under a few of the estate's muscular vineyard workers, and the count undoubtedly knew that.
Two bottles of wine later, the two of us lying stretched out beside each other on a blanket under a tree, me naked and sighing under the glide of his hands over curves and into crevices, and him fully clothed save for his open fly and the protrusion of his huge, hard, uncut cock, he whispered, "Trust me. Give yourself to me."
"Yes," I murmured.
"Have you ever been flogged?"
"Yes," I answered.
Turning me on my belly and taking up his riding crop in hand, he told me to raise my bare buttocks to him. I did so. I whimpered, anticipating the pain to come, as, after kneeling behind me and kissing and tonguing my hole open, he withdrew and flicked his riding crop on my tender buttocks. The bite of the lash increased, as I flinched and groaned. I had anticipated and welcomed the sting of the riding crop from the first moment I saw him holding it in his strong hands across his saddle.
I went hard for him.
He reddened my cheeks with the crop, but he was only testing me—my willingness and my trust—and told me to turn back onto my back, to open my thighs, and to bend my knees, placing my feet flat on the ground. I complied. I did whatever his aristocratic, commanding voice demanded of me. I was putty in his hands. If he had beaten me in earnest, raising bloody welts, with the riding crop before fucking me, I would have endured it—as long as he fucked me.
