Date: Fri, 26 Oct 2001 18:31:33
From: Ganymede
Subject: Prego, Part 3.

Prego. (PART 3) A Story by Ganymede


WARNING:

This story contains a graphic description of sexual
acts between a man and a MINOR boy. If the subject of man/boy sex
offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of resi-
dence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not
read further! The author has no intention of causing harm, or
inciting other to harmful acts against minors. You have been
warned! Read at your own risk!

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym,
Ganymede. Copies been submitted ro the Nifty archive and the Ghouldrool
archive. Feel free to post it to other newsgroups or
send it to your friends. If you enjoy my story, please contribute
funds to a charitable organization providing services for boys.

For those of you who wish to see what Riccardi Guarini
looks like, the author recommends mem57. The similarity is simply
amazing. However, any other resemblance to any individual, alive
or dead, is unfortunate.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Some Italian is used during the part. My semi-skilled trans-
lation of the major dialog is at the end of this part.

FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is
illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships
aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of
sin!



Prego Part 3 by Ganymede

Chapter 7.



We made love again as soon as Ricci was awake enough to know
what he wanted. And judging from the shy but knowing smile that he
greeted me with after his eyes flickered open, he wanted to do it
just as much as I did. He was still smiling when with almost no
effort at all, I turned him from his side onto his back and lifted
his slender brown legs up high. I placed them so that his knees
were above his shoulders with his feet pressing back against my
thighs. My penis brushed against his buttocks, flexing hungrily
and bouncing against his warm soft skin, yet I did not take advan-
tage. I caressed his slender brown thighs and gazed into his dark
eyes. I was his to command.

My brother never waited. As soon as he was in position, he
started pushing. My role was to keep my buttocks apart as far as
possible and wait. More often than not, Bryce was gentle at first,
teasing the rim of my anus with his penis, but only until the tip
was in far enough that there was no doubt that it was in the right
spot. He didn't ease the head in. His entry was like a sudden
punch between my widespread cheeks, breaching my exposed anus so
fast that I couldn't have stopped him even if I had wanted to.
Once his penis was inside me, I didn't care about anything else.

I did not have to wait very long for Ricci to make up his
mind about what he wanted. An encouraging nod indicated that he
was more than willing to submit to this intimate act with me. His
fingers cautiously felt between us, stroked against my penis,
brought it downward, placed the tip where it needed to be. That
place, so foreign and private yet already familiar to me, was hot
and oozing, and so embracing that it was all that I could do not
to push forcefully into him. The tip of my penis fitted snugly
between his firm smooth cheeks. I sighed as his moist heat surged
over me, flowing along my penis until I was so nervous with
excitement that I could barely breath. The anticipation of what we
were about to share was nearly as satisfying as actual penetra-
tion.

I felt Ricci trembling, then straining with barely concealed
eagerness as he deliberately pressed his anus further onto my
penis. It was not in all that far, but I could feel his anus
twitching, relaxing, pulling against my penis. He pushed again.
That effort produced a wet gurgle that escaped around my glans. I
wanted to push deeper. It was as if I would discover some wonder-
ful secret if only my penis inside him. I gazed into his dark liq-
uid eyes and hoped that he was thinking the same thing as I was.

"It's messy from what you did, isn't it?" he observed point-
edly.

"Messy?" I asked with surprise.

I had to think for a moment. Messy? It did not strike me as
being messy, not unpleasant like that, not dirty or disgusting,
not something to be ashamed of. It was beautiful, and reassuring
in a way that our previous love remained as oleaginous fluid that
seeped out of Ricci's slim body. I glanced down, lifting my slip-
pery penis away and looking where my body had just touched his.
His anus was surrounded by slime, a creamy ooze that showed what
we had done earlier in the afternoon. It was undeniable. His open-
ing and the surrounding skin was covered with it, making his red-
dened hole appear shiny. A small glistening dribble had escaped
from inside him and was trickling down between his parted cheeks.
There was a wet patch on the cloth where he had been lying. One
thing was obvious. The second time I made love to him I would not
need any more Trinita olive oil.

"Yeah, I guess it is a bit messy, Ricci. I'm sorry," I added
guiltily.

Ricci shrugged, leaving no doubt in my mind that he knew what
semen was and where it ended up. He smiled, casually wiping a wet
smear from the inside of his thigh.

"I don't care. I guess you had a lot stored up so you put a
lot in me," he said acceptingly. "Mr. Alison made a lot too," he
added offhandedly.

"Bryce certainly did that," I answered fondly.

My brother had produced a lot of semen even as a young teen-
ager, which I suppose was only to be expected given the size of
his testicles. They were always huge compared to mine. By the time
he was fifteen or sixteen his ejaculation was so copious that I
could barely swallow it all. As I remembered, and it was hard to
forget, not only was there a lot of it but it was always thicker
than mine. It came out in strands, some might even say 'ropes'. It
reminded me of egg white in consistency and quantity, although I
had comparatively few chances to see it because masturbation was
not one of his favorite activities. If he had not ejaculated pre-
viously that day, there was so much that I had to swallow several
times and I could feel it sliding down my throat like salty, slimy
oysters. Although I hated oysters I did not mind the taste.

It was different if Bryce ejaculated inside my rectum. I
didn't mind it nearly as much, at least not when it first hap-
pened. All I felt then was a spurting, momentary heat. When his
jerking spasms ended and his limp penis finally slipped out, I was
left with an intense and lasting satisfaction that came from know-
ing that part of him was still deep inside me. Hours later, I
could still feel where his penis had been, a persistent aching
void below my stomach, an awareness that came as much from the
lingering soreness in my anus. Still, I much preferred that way of
having his semen inside my body even if it meant using the toilet
to empty my bowels out afterwards. The worst part was the occa-
sional dribble, or the wet farts that came out in squirts and
deposited his mess onto the seat of my underpants.

I stroked the sensitive area where Ricci's thighs joined to
his buttocks. He looked at me and smiled, then slowly nodded
again. His eyes met mine knowingly, exchanging the full extent of
our awakened desire in a single glance. He was ready. I was ready.
there was no holding back the inevitable. Then, smiling at him, my
fingers eased into his opened furrow and rubbed into the oily
excretion until they were coated. With the intention of finishing
what we had just started, I applied the drooling slipperiness
along the shaft of my half-hard penis.

>From the outset I realized that it was going to be even bet-
ter the second time around. Better because it would take much
longer, and because both of us knew what we were doing. It would
also be much easier, but it was so much easier that it took me by
surprise. Ricci was relaxed, almost amused as we fitted our bodies
together again. My penis slipped into his anus, not immediately
breaching the little ring of muscle but puddling in the slippery
fluids I had left there. His opening, disturbingly small, was very
loose and slippery. It so slippery that my half-erect penis kept
sliding away from where it needed to be. Finally, with both of his
hands Ricci held the shaft tightly, pulling the head down, locat-
ing it in the snug opening, keeping it there. I felt his strong
small fingers massaging the tip of my lubricated penis against his
anus, loosening it even further. Even after the head was posi-
tioned, his hand stayed there, holding it straight and ever ready
to guide it back inside his body. I heard as much as felt it slid-
ing back and forth, the sucking and slurping as he moved the glans
around and in and out of his little opening, getting my penis
harder and harder until it was ready for him.

Without warning, indeed when I least expected it, he took a
deep breath and suddenly strained down. This time he wasn't play-
ing with it. He was intent on achieving what he wanted. I felt his
anus swelling around my glans. Hot and tight, an absorbing wonder-
ful pressure that seemed as if it was almost sucking my penis into
him. Then, in a single seemingly effortless push, my glans entered
his anus, pushing until it embedded in the grasp of his sphincter.
Then, with another urgent nod from him, I started carefully
squeezing more of it into him. He gasped at the sudden fullness,
the building pressure bulging into him, the feeling of something
soft yet hard, gentle yet demanding. He swallowed, tensed,
breathed out and tried hard to relax. He could feel it inside him,
foreign, yet familiar, growing bigger inside him until his anus
was stretched tightly. He tightened involuntarily, gasped and
uttered a soft groan as my penis swelled in instant response to
his contraction and became even stiffer. Ever so slowly, both of
us not daring to breath, we pushed it deeper until his rectum con-
tained most of my shaft. We stopped there, neither of us moving.

Ricci felt it, just as I felt it, sharing in silence the most
intimate act that two people could have. This was the miracle of
our love. We were happy, both simply enjoying the sensations, the
warmth, the gripping almost painful pressure close to the base of
my penis, the mushy enveloping softness that wrapped around the
furthest part my organ, the quivering, quaking flesh that joined
us. We were joined like that, joined inseparably, joined the way a
man and a boy were supposed to be. There was no need to talk. His
rectum spasmed erratically, cramping hard a couple of times, but
not enough to push my penis out. From the look on his face I real-
ized that there was no need to pull back. It wasn't hurting him.
He was happy. Instead, we looked into each other's eyes and knew
that this was how life was supposed to be. His inner muscles con-
stantly compressed and relaxed, gently exerting rippling pulls
and pushes that were slowly overpowering me. Who needed to thrust
when we shared this? I wanted to stay inside Ricci's body forever.

My hand slipped under his legs and lovingly brushed across
his narrow firm belly. Then, my fingers danced up and across his
flat chest, marvelling at how soft and smooth he was. He was so
slender that I could feel every rib as a definite ridge. Even his
navel was defined as a fold of skin that seemed to shelter the
precious sculpted whorl within. His breasts were almost invisible
but for his two tiny nipples that I felt as softer spots. I teased
one until the delicate flesh grew firm and pointed enough that my
fingertip felt it as a solitary Braille dot. He squirmed when the
tenderness of his nipple was overwhelming. Satisfied, my hand
drifted lower, levering the tip of my little finger into his navel
before proceeding to lightly caress his lower belly. I came close
to his penis, very close, but never touching it. It was still
limp, flopped onto the cushioning skin of his scrotum. He smiled,
tightened his sphincter so that it squeezed my penis, and placed
his hand over mine. He pushed my hand to where he wanted to be
touched.

I smiled back at him as I began to fondle his silk-skinned
penis back to erection. He continued to look at me contentedly,
almost wantonly, still squeezing with his fabulous muscles. I
wondered if I had been the same way with Bryce. I could not remem-
ber ever being in control. He wanted me to lie there, that was
all. Lie there and let him thrust his big penis back and forth
until he was finished. Not once could I remember doing anything
more. Not like this. This was about sharing. Bryce did what he
wanted to me, and my role was to lie there and let him do it. I
felt inferior, somehow used, sometimes as if I had no other use
than to be the receptacle for his penis. He made it worse by call-
ing me his 'sperm bank'. He made such regular deposits that there
was probably some truth to it. I grew up expecting to be dominated
that way. So far from what I had observed, Ricci was demanding in
a way that I never was. He wanted, if not to be in control, at
least not to be completely passive. He was never going to be like
me if I had any say in it. He might be a sexually immature boy,
but I wanted an equal partner. I wanted Ricci exactly the way he
was. I was perfectly happy to do whatever Ricci wanted, when and
where he wanted it, how he wanted it.

When his penis was hard and pointing stiffly along his lower
belly, I started to thrust gently. By then it was what we both
wanted more than anything else. I was making love to him and my
heart pounded with the thrill of what we were doing. Ricci's anus
had lost most if not all of its tightness and the cramps had faded
to uncertain pulses. It felt good, firm, like a fist that could
squeeze and relax whenever it wanted to. One of his hands grasped
my hip, the other behind and beneath him. I could feel his fingers
touching my scrotum, stroking the length of my penis whenever I
withdrew, playing in the accumulating fluid that I pumped out of
him, pressing his fingers against my penis when it was sliding
back. Knowing that, knowing what he was trying to do, encouraged
me to try to get even further inside him. He certainly did not
seem to mind when I pressed up against him, pushing just a little
bit harder each time.

His anus crept further along my penis as I managed to work
more and more into him. When I thought he was starting to feel
uncomfortable I eased away. He groaned in relief. By that point,
my penis had gone in nearly the whole way, certainly further than
the first time. He took a deep breath and used his feet to lift
his buttocks higher, taking the initiative to further separate us
until my glans was barely lodged inside him. He took a deep breath
and closed his eyes, concentrating. This time he barely nodded.
Again and again we tried to achieve that ultimate goal. We both
wanted it and it was going to happen. It was simply a matter of
when. Then, before I realized what had happened my penis had
reached the point where there was no holding it back, not even
that last thick, hair-covered inch. I kept on pushing as Ricci
resisted, shoved, grinding his buttocks against my groin and it
glided deeper. I could feel it filling Ricci's rectum until he
whimpered, until we both knew it was done. It could go no further.
My penis was all the way inside him, or so close to being all the
way that was not inside him was purely academic. His small sweaty
cheeks were compressed against my groin. I held his ankles with
one hand to keep his legs steady. The other arm I wrapped around
his shoulders to keep him from trying to pull away. It took him a
while to get used to having it there, penetrating far beyond his
prostate, so deep in his bowels that his other organs were dis-
placed. He grimaced, keeping his teeth gritted while he breathed
in short gasps.

"Does it still hurt, Honey?" I asked after a while.

He shook his head slightly. "Just a little. He is so big,
David."

"It's in all the way," I said, soothingly caressing his small
shoulder.

"I know. I am a man now," he whispered.

"Huh? Why do you say that?"

"You make love to me like a man."

"Do I? You feel so good, Ricci," I mused. "I love you so
much."

He used his muscles again to squeeze and pull on my penis,
keeping it deep inside him, trying to get used to the sensations.
So full. Quivering, always pulling when he trembled. So good. Then
he tried to do it deliberately, contracting his inner muscles
around my penis so that it was squeezed tightly. It was his way of
showing how much he loved me. I expect a lot of men would have
started then, thrusting back and forth. I didn't. I kept my groin
pressed against him, tensing and relaxing my penis continually.
That was enough. Could anything else be so wonderful? Ricci
moaned. His mouth stayed open. His muscle weakened, relaxing even
further, although it hardly seemed possible. Ricci's eyes were
half-closed in dreamy bliss.

"Mama will wonder where I am," Ricci announced softly.

"I expect so," I said dreamily.

At that moment, his mother could have been a thousand miles
away. As far as I was concerned, the only two people alive were
Ricci and me. It was a moment in time that I would never forget. I
leaned closer to him, stretching my neck until our lips could
meet. We exchanged a chaste kiss. It was barely enough to moisten
our lips. Kissing somehow seemed irrelevant, except to show my
love. Anything more was unnecessary when his innards were dis-
placed by my erect penis. Ricci smiled at me, shyly licking his
lips to taste where my lips had been.

"You kiss like Mama," he announced teasingly.

"Do I?" I laughed. "So how should I kiss you?"

"Like before, David. It is hot! With your ah, what is it
called. Linguetta. The um,.. ah, si, I know the word, your
tongue."

"Ah," I laughed. "My little Italian stallion likes to french
kiss, I think."

"French kiss?" Ricci smirked. "Il bacio del franchese? You
mean with our tongues? Ha, yes. Very much. It's a lot of fun that
way."

He stuck his tongue out at me. It was pink and small and it
was an open invitation if ever there was one. I put my lips over
and around his tongue and sucked. Sucked hard. His wriggling
tongue pushed boldly into my mouth, swirling around until my
tongue came forward. We engaged in a playful game, seeing how far
we could push our tongues into each other's mouths even as we kept
my penis pushed all the way inside Ricci's rectum.

Occasionally, Ricci would work his narrow pelvis, oscillat-
ing it back and forth and around in circles so that my penis moved
inside him. He stopped frequently whenever he felt the sensations
begin to mount to the point of orgasm. All the while our lips
stayed pressed tightly together. However, it was not about kiss-
ing, it was about being joined and having fun, and sharing the
wonderful feelings. Saliva was trickling down Ricci's cheek when
we finally parted. Grinning, he smeared it away with the back of
his hand. It was the same hand that had been underneath him. I
smelled the scent of him, the earthy fetid odor of his bowels.
Yet, it was an aphrodisiac, the musky smell that came from two
males making love. Perhaps he did not realize how much slime
coated his fingers. He rubbed some on his cheek. I could smell it
there, and see it, glistening like snail mucus in the garden after
a night of rain. My penis was as deep and far as it could go and
we were both contented.

"I love you, Riccardi Guarini," I whispered.

"It's good, isn't it, David?" he answered vaguely.

"Huh? What's good?" I asked warily. "Kissing?"

"Yes, and this," he giggled. "He's so big."

Again, he tensed that inner muscle. His squeeze was weaker
than before, at least until he strained with all his might. I
groaned as the pressure increased. He giggled again, tightening
even more, enjoying his capacity to make me happy, increasing and
relaxing that fabulous hot pressure until my penis was throbbing.
All at once, I needed to thrust, hard, fast, deep. I needed to
'fuck' him, to prove myself, to demonstrate my manhood, to fulfill
the role that nature had assigned to me. I had to do it, yet as
soon as I tried to move even a fraction of an inch his body
gripped my penis so firmly that any movement on my part was impos-
sible. Was it possible that he could squeeze the semen out of me
just my using his muscles? Without any other movement? Each con-
traction sent a violent shudder through me. My testicles drew
upwards. My body strained, arching my back, pushing against his
uplifted buttocks as hard as I could. There was nothing I could
do. The end was inevitable. My penis jerked once, hardening into a
rigid stake that jabbed against Ricci's tiny prostate. He grunted
and grabbed at me, nodding eagerly. The semen pumped through my
penis, not spurting out like it had before, but still gushing,
filling whatever void remained inside him. Perhaps Ricci felt the
jerking spasms, or the frantic pulses against his anus, or the
sudden heat, or the fluid spilling into his rectum. There was a
momentary pressure almost as if he was trying to get the last of
it out. He groaned loudly and he closed his eyes and clenched his
teeth tightly. His lower jaw trembled. And then it was over. His
back, which had been lifted almost entirely up, slumped down. His
feet, which had been braced against my thighs, dropped behind my
legs. He breathed out in a long sigh.

"Better than good I love you so much," I murmured.

My penis was still pulsing inside his quaking body, continu-
ing to ejaculate a final dribble. My erection softened quickly,
fading, shrinking back, withdrawing of its own accord until the
head was barely inside him.

Ricci nodded weakly. "Si. Much better," he agreed solemnly.
"Ti amo, David Gart-na. Ti amo. Next time,..." he paused to
breath. He tried to smile. "Is my turn to be the man, okay."

"Do you want to do it now?" I offered.

He shrugged absently. "Mama needs me to help her," he
answered as if he could physically manage to do it. "Tonight is
our busy night."

"Oh," I said.

I sighed, accepting that Ricci had priorities that were more
important to him than lying beside me and making love again. I
tugged between us, separating us, guiltily cupping my hand over
his small, very slippery buttocks to conceal the mess. This time
it was a mess, an oozing, yellow-brown mess. I used my handker-
chief to clean him up. Although he did not complain, his anus was
obviously tender. I dabbed at the reddened puffy orifice gently,
fully expecting that Ricci would be sore later on. My self-
assigned task was made more difficult because as soon as I had
wiped away the accumulated semen and oil, some more would ooze
out. When he was finally presentable, we dressed, still watching
each other until there was nothing more to see and even then it
was impossible for me to look away for more than a few seconds. We
folded up the linen sheet and placed it on the racks with the oth-
ers. Together, Ricci and I extinguished the last few embers that
remained of the fire by urinating on them. I took one last look
around the hut to make sure that everything was more or less the
way we had found it and closed the door behind us. The handker-
chief was in my pocket. I would treasure it forever, just as I
would treasure the hours that Ricci and I had spent in the ram-
shackle hut. Already I found it hard to believe. Had it really
happened?



Chapter 8.



I would have liked the walk back to the Pensione to have
taken a lot longer. The sky was dramatic. It was still cloudy, but
from the west the low sun blazed in brilliant glory. Greens became
verdant, and the red Isola Rossa took on a purple hue. The air was
refreshing and scented with the ocean. And there was Ricci, walk-
ing beside me as if nothing had happened. He paused to point out a
small path that headed towards the cliff. That was where he went
to collect the seagull eggs that his mother used in one of her
special dishes. I ventured closer to the precipitous edge. Just
the thought of Ricci climbing down there was enough to chill my
blood. Did his mother have any idea of how dangerous it was?

Then, he ran away from the cliff. I gazed at him, feeling
overpowering love for the remarkable creature that was a nine-
nearly-ten-year-old boy. I swallowed, dwelling on his age as I
remembered what we had done in the hut. He had seemed older then,
much older, not physically older and certainly not sexually
mature, but worldly, as if he knew everything that he needed to
know to be a complete person.

"He's not even ten yet," I mused aloud. "God! He's still a
little boy. I've fallen in love with a kid. Maybe it's just infat-
uation,... No! It's not. I love him. I really, really love him."

I smiled at myself. I was unable to take my eyes away from
him. I knew I should have been consumed by guilt. Instead, I was
happy. I was happier than I had ever been. I watched him with more
pleasure than I could ever imagine possible. He moved his thin
lithe limbs so effortlessly that I amazed that he could do any-
thing strenuous after what I had just done to him. Twice! It
seemed impossible to believe, yet the evidence was in my pocket. I
closed my hand around the damp sticky handkerchief. I watched as
Ricci approached a large area of thorny bushes. Even the olive
trees knew to give that barren place a wide berth. Without paus-
ing, he leaped across what had previously been a dry creek but now
carried the last of the rainwater to a cascading waterfall over
the cliff and into the ocean below. He disappeared from sight
behind the brambles, and then a few seconds later came jogging
back to me, grinning and squelching in his ragged sneakers. I
wanted to hug him again and again. I loved him. He laughed, mut-
tering phrases in Italian. My brother had invested fifty thousand
pounds to get a half-share in the Pensione. It was a great deal,
but what an investment he had made in getting Ricci as well!

"You got wet, didn't you, you little monkey?" I laughed.
"That will teach you to go running around after a storm."

Ricci nodded gleefully. "Come, I show you how far I jump, Mr.
Gart-na. Is much longer way than you think."

That he had resumed calling me by my surname surprised me.
Had he forgotten already, forgotten that I wanted him to call me
David, forgotten that we were lovers? Were boys so fickle and
transient that their amorous affairs were put aside within a few
minutes? He dragged me by the hand until I reached the place where
he had leaped. The leap was certainly much more difficult than I
realized. On the other side, nearly hidden by brambles and vines,
were what looked to me to be the remains of an ancient building. I
could see the ivory white of a fluted marble column, or at least a
piece of one, that was lying on its side. Ricci had jumped beyond
the toppled column. From the skid marks I realized that he landed
on a flat mud-covered area. Indeed, from the length of the mark,
he had not stopped until he hit the next piece of column. It was
concealed by leaves. Where his feet had been, the mud had been
removed to reveal the speckled surface of a black and white
mosaic.

"What is this place?" I asked, nonplussed.

Ricci shrugged with the vagueness of disinterested youth. "I
don't know,... but it's old. Even before the palazzo was built, is
here, " he added, gesturing towards the Pensione in the distance.

"Yes, I suppose so," I agreed. "I think there are some pieces
of stone in the foundation wall," I said. "I saw them when I
walked down from the terrace yesterday."

"Si. Some columns are there too, David. In the courtyard," he
added as he observed my perplexed expression. "So is older?"

"Oh? Yes, of course. Much older I expect. I wonder what it
used to be?" I added curiously.

If the amount of brambles and bushes was any indication, the
building had covered a large area. Perhaps there had been more
than one building. Whatever it was, it was positioned with a won-
derful view of the coastline.

Ricci stepped closer and stared down into the brambles. "I
think maybe an old castle," he suggested.

"Maybe. I don't know. It looks very old," I said. "Like some-
thing the ancient Romans might have built perhaps."

"There is a story about some Greeks coming here because of
that," Ricci mused. He waved his hand towards the Isola Rossa.
Then, he pointed nearly straight down. "Is called Apollyon, the
beach where I swim. Very pretty. No one else go there. Sometimes I
swim naked."

"Ah, I bet you do," I chuckled. "Next time take me with you?"

"Is too cold now."

I turned to him. He regarded me dispassionately, tilting his
head as if trying to decide something. Against his brown neck, the
coral necklace was very beautiful. He was very beautiful. It was
hard to imagine that such a beautiful boy could be standing only a
few paces away from me. His curly dark hair was tinged with red in
the sunlight. His brown eyes held mine. He grinned shyly. he must
have felt the pressure building within his bowels. A moment later
a wet fart gurgled from behind him.

"You fuck me good, Inglese," he smirked.

For the time being, ancient ruins and Sardinian folk tales
were apparently forgotten, or at least put aside.

"Why thank you, Ricci," I said without showing surprise.
"You were very good too."

Despite his age, the word `fuck' was no longer vulgar, not
the way he said it. It was a statement of fact, a simple explana-
tion of his inability to control his body. He was uninhibited like
his mother. His muscle was still loose, and it sounded as if some
of the fluids I had deposited inside him were still there. He
might just as well have said that I had made him feel happy. He
rubbed his behind absently. He could still feel my presence. I
remembered the feeling all too well. It took hours, sometimes days
before it went away. It felt bigger afterwards, bigger inside and
outside. That part of him was tender, bigger, possessed by
another. He would never be able to look at me again and not remem-
ber what I had done to him. I was the same way with Bryce. I
remembered the empty feeling, the looseness, the constant squeez-
ing and clenching of my buttock muscles to make the ache go away.
Until the next time. Sometimes it was only a few hours. Sometimes
if my parents were conscientious, it took days before the opportu-
nity arose again.

Ricci's eyes flickered thoughtfully. "David,..." he began
awkwardly. "Don't tell Mama, okay. She thinks I'm, uh,... I forget
the word in English. What Mr. Alison say I give him...."

"A virgin?" I prompted. The precious gift of his innocence.
Part of me hated Bryce for doing that to him.

"Si! Like the Virgin Mary." He giggled and glanced bashfully
at the ground. "A virgin is untouched by man," he added dramati-
cally.

"Yes."

He looked up again, his eyes dancing with merriment. "Next
time I'm the man, okay david?" he announced.

"Okay," I agreed seriously.

"Promise you don't tell Mama?"

"I won't, Ricci. Believe me, I won't say a word. It's our
secret."

"We talk this morning so she find out how much I love you. If
she ask what we do, you say you kiss me, okay?"

"That's all?"

Ricci nodded. His hand reached for mine. His fingers
entwined with mine, squeezing. He tugged to get me walking again.
After a final glance at the ruins behind me, I followed obedi-
ently. We walked hand in hand back to the path beside the cliff,
letting go only when we reached the stairs that led up to the ter-
race. I glanced at my watch for the first time in hours, immedi-
ately realizing that at nearly five o'clock it was much later than
I thought. Judging by the activity on the terrace, it was time for
Ricci to go to work. Unlike the previous day when the only two
people had been serving the tables, there were four people busily
setting out the crisp white linen table clothes, vases with
flower, and cutlery. His mother came out of the kitchen and
promptly bustled over, shaking flour from her apron and giving
instructions on the way.

"Bueno sera, Signor,... David," she said pleasantly.

She smiled at Ricci, raising an eyebrow in his direction as I
returned the evening greeting to her. Ricci innocently smiled
back at her. His face gave nothing away, at least as far as I
could determine. For all she could see, he had been rambling in
the country.

"Siete stati andati un molto tempo," she added pointedly to
Ricci.

Ricci shrugged, yet his effort to appear nonchalant was
wasted. I knew I was not supposed to understand but I grasped the
meaning from his expression. She wanted to know where he had been
for so long.

"La Tempesta, Mama," he mumbled.

"Si, la tempesta," she repeated deliberately. She nodded her
head thoughtfully. "La tempesta."

"We took shelter in the hut," I explained hastily. Cecilia
gave me a blank look. I assumed she had not understood. "The hut,
I don't know the word for 'hut'. The um,... it's not exactly a
barn,.... the, er,... where the olive oil is,... the hut."

She smiled knowingly. "Si, la capanna. It is very, how do you
say in Inglese, romantico, no?"

I deflated. Ricci smirked. His mother laughed.

"It is pretty, no? Ah, a place for the artista, for
fotographia? Ah, the word is,..." She gesticulated energetically,
sending a cloud of flour around her.

"Picturesque?" I suggested valiantly.

"Si. That! It is a good place to shelter from the tem-
pesta,... The storm. Molto romantico."

"Huh? yes, I suppose," I muttered.

Suddenly, her comment that had only just become innocuous,
was ambiguous. I felt my neck redden. The situation had taken on a
different meaning, one that I was not at all comfortable with. She
knew. She knew I had spent the afternoon alone with her son. I
stood there looking and feeling guilty. Ricci gazed at his mother
with an expression that suggested he was bemused.

"Um,... well I thought it better, um safer,... to be inside,"
I added with stubborn determination to see it through to the end.

"Si."

"It rained a lot," I added. "I lit a fire because we were
cold. I hope that was okay. We made sure it was out when we left."

Cecilia nodded slowly. "Si."

"Ricci fell asleep," I added.

She nodded again. "Si,  lavoro duro,.. per un ragazzo giov-
ane. Is good?"

"Pardon?" I said. I felt my cheeks getting redder and redder.

"She say it is hard work for a young boy," Ricci translated
without pausing.

"Oh." What did she intend by that? Surely not? "What's hard
work?" I asked awkwardly.

"What we did today, I expect," Ricci smirked.

His eyes were flickering. They were so dark and passionate
that they communicated more, much more. The last time I had looked
into those eyes his arms had wrapped around me, his rectum clench-
ing, pulling me back, holding my body inside his.

"Is good," she said suddenly.

"What's good?" I asked Cecilia.

"You are with him.... Is good. Is very good."

"Ah, well,... yes, ah, I suppose," I muttered.

Cecilia surveyed her son from head to toe, and then back up
again. She looked at him closely. Then, satisfied, she turned to
me. The subject was closed.

"I need Ricci to help me. Very busy night tonight," she
explained.

"Of course. I can help too," I offered.

Cecilia gave me a grateful look. "You are guest,.... Mr.
Gardner. I have much to do. A lot to be done." She turned to Ricci
before she departed for the kitchen. "Ricci, gli dice che non
debba aiutare. E Ricci, li lava passa con attenzione," she added.

Ricci nodded. "She say I tell you that you do not need to
help. You're a guest," he said. "Mister Gart-na," he added in a
teasing sing-song voice. "I take care of you."

"Si!" Cecilia smiled.

She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. Her hand set-
tled on Ricci's shoulder, drawing him closer to her. Her expres-
sion was maternal, protective, loving. It was a very different
kind of love to mine. Slowly her hand moved to his chin and she
lifted his head back to meet his eyes. Mother and son. I shifted
my feet, sensing they shared a closeness that I would never have
with him. He was her son. Nothing would change that.

"Is good, Ricci. Siete felici, il mio tesoro?"

Ricci nodded slightly. He licked his lips nervously. His
mother's hand stroked his cheek, touched where Ricci's hand had
been. Instinctively, his small hand came to cover hers. He held
his mother's hand, still gazing at her. Then she let Ricci go. She
walked a few paces towards the kitchen before she stopped.

"Lavisi con attenzione le vostre mani, Ricci."

She turned and looked over her shoulder a moment before she
was gone

Absently, he fingered the pink beads of his necklace. He
smiled at me, flashing brilliant white teeth before his tongue
brushed over his lips. It was almost as if he had been kissed, as
if he could still taste my lips on his, as if he wanted to taste
me. I breathed out and swallowed. It was a distinctly erotic ges-
ture, one that conveyed wanton desire, one that did not seem out
of place on a ten-year-old boy.

"You're very beautiful, Ricci," I said softly.

"Ha, you say that to all boys."

I shook my head quickly. "Just one. You! Because you are,
Ricci. Do you think she knows?" I blurted out.

Ricci continued to play with his beads. He was showing me
what everyone knew. He wore the necklace for me. Now, after what
had happened in the hut, I belonged to him, and he belonged to me.

"What did she just say?" I asked nervously. "Before she
left."

"She say I must wash my hands carefully," Ricci answered gui-
lessly. His eyes gazed into mine.

"Oh?" I mouthed. "Why?"

He shrugged and did not answer until I was ready to ask him
again. "It's okay. I go wash and get ready. You sit in the same
place, Mr. Gart-na," he instructed.

"I'd rather help," I offered again. "I could help clear
tables."

Ricci laughed and shook his head. "Tonight, Mister Gart-na,
you will have a special dinner. Always, I serve for you. Mama says
it is okay. This is my time to be the boy for you. And later?
Later, I be a man for you," he added under his breath.

"I'd like that," I whispered back. "I'd like that a lot. Wash
your hands very carefully, Ricci. You don't know where they've
been," I teased.

He snorted, waved his hand in my face. The smell was still
there, not a strong, but still noticeable. No wonder his mother
had told him to wash his hands carefully. With a grin and a flick
of his head that made his tousled hair jerk, he headed off in his
mother's footsteps. I watched him leave, my eyes never leaving his
pert little bottom. That part of his body was so small, yet I had
discovered the most wonderful joy with him there, inside, deep,
where his rectum clasped my penis and held me tightly. We had
joined together, sharing ourselves. Nothing and no one would ever
separate us now.

I waited for about five minutes before I went in search of
Cecilia. She was in the kitchen, a location not entirely unex-
pected. She was coating blackened metal trays with olive oil when
I entered. There was no sign of Ricci. She looked up and smiled.

"Grazie," she said warmly.

Our eyes met, stayed together, almost daring me to be the
first to look away.

"It should be me saying thank you," I managed to say eventu-
ally. "Grazie, Senore Cecilia."

"Prego," she laughed. "Is good?"

"Huh? What is good?" I asked nervously.

"He is with you." She added some more oil to the tray she was
holding. "Le tempesta."

"Oh? Oh that. Yes, I suppose so." I wanted to say more to
her. I needed to explain what I felt inside for her son. "He's a
wonderful boy."

"Si. You will stay here,..." she said softly.

It was not a question. There was no inflexion. A statement of
fact. I nodded slowly, almost as if I had never considered the
possibility of spending the rest of my life with Ricci.

"He needs you very much. The arrow is deep, very deep. I see
it in his eyes. He loves with all his heart. Si,  pi di che cosa
si presenta fra i piedini."

"I'm sorry," I said apologetically, shaking my head.

Cecilia smiled. "Better I say it in Italian, Mr. Gardner."
She hesitated. "It is more than what occurs between the legs," she
said quietly. "You will make love with my son soon. It will be
good?"

"Um, well, I guess. I mean, well,... maybe,... Ah, I expect
so one day. Yes. It will be very good then, Cecilia. I love him."
I looked over my shoulder. "I love him a great deal, Cecilia. I
love him so much it hurts inside."

"That is good. It is how it should me. You are good to him.
He like what you do today?"

"Ah,... Yes, I think so. No, I know so. He didn't want me to
tell you."

She laughed softly. "He is molto appassionato, what you
English call 'sexy', but a little boy still. So he tell you his
mama must not know he has loved you. I smell it, the fungo on
him."

"Pardon?" I mumbled anxiously.

Again, Cecilia laughed. Not critically, but gently, with
amusement, and acceptance. It was a reassuring laugh, a laugh that
said she was happy.

"The smell is different with a boy," she remarked. "Not like
a woman. Stronger. The smell. Come un fungo."

I felt my neck starting to turn crimson again. She had
smelled my come, the odor of funk. I swallowed and finally looked
down at the floor. It was only after a few seconds that I remem-
bered the Italian word for 'like' was 'come'. And 'fungo'? It had
to be the smell of mushrooms. I laughed uncertainly, trying to
decide if the smell of 'mushrooms' meant what it sounded like.
Perhaps she was talking about one of the myriad smells that lin-
gered from the hut. Surely she could not be thinking about the
same thing that I was? Cecilia laughed.

"Already there are, ah, the word escapes me. In Italian we
say 'voci'. That is when people talk about you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Not stories, at least not usually, but what they see,
they tell."

"Rumors?" I suggested.

"Yes. Rumors about your and Ricci."

"What sort of rumors?" I asked awkwardly.

"Today I was in the market," Cecilia replied. She began cut-
ting thick garlic into slices. "And two times I was asked if you
were going to stay?"

"I was planning too. Is that bad?" I was becoming increas-
ingly nervous.

Cecilia shook her head quickly. She hesitated. "Is because
of Ricci," she added slowly.

"What? You mean they asked if I was going to stay because of
Ricci," I clarified.

"Si!"

"Oh! I'm sorry. Um.... What did you say?"

"I said I hoped so."

"I don't want to make things difficult for you, Cecilia. Or
Ricci either, for that matter. Especially not for Ricci. I would
hate to do that."

"Prego. You are good for him. The sun shines in his eyes now.
He is happy."

"But the rumors?" I asked. "Won't it make things difficult
for him in the village."

"For a boy like Ricci things are always that way, I think. He
has to find his own way. He has his friends. You have met Serge
Candolini?"

"Yes, at the Bar Chieste, yesterday. Ricci and I had spumoni.
He seemed to like Ricci a lot," I replied.

The man had showed a look of affection, not only for Ricci,
for he was visibly enamoured of the slender brown-skinned boy, but
for me as well. At the time, I had wondered whether the bar owner
was attracted to young boys as well. He certainly heaped our cones
with ice-cream.

Cecilia looked up at me. "He does. Ricci is,... I must prac-
tice my English," she said. "In Italian what I want to say it is
easy. The heart," she said, touching her breast. "In here,... that
boy puts an arrow in some men's hearts."

"You mean he attracts men like me," I asked boldly.

"Si. He has put an arrow into your heart?"

"Indeed he has."

"Trust me. He loves you too, Mr. Gardner. It is best for him.
Il voci,... the rumors, they will not hurt him when he is with you
in your bed at night."

I gaped at her while she scrapped the chopped garlic into the
pans. I had heard what she said, but I did not believe it. It was
tantamount to saying that she didn't mind if Ricci and I had sex.

"Can I help? "

Cecilia placed the tray on the table. "Tonight you rest, Mr.
Gardner. Let Ricci serve a special dinner."

"Well, I want to do something to help. Now? before dinner?" I
offered.

"Si. Tonight for the house special I cook gnocchetti alla
smeraldina for the primi piatti. For the secondi, pesce spada alla
Sardegnia and fregola with mussels and clams. You wash them?"

"The mussels and clams? Of course."

She pointed me in the direction of the sink. The amount of
mussels and clams to be washed was staggering. For an hour, and
five buckets at least, I dutifully washed and rinsed and stacked
the little mussels and clams, and promised myself that no matter
what, I was having the Sardinian swordfish for dinner.

Cecilia chattered on about the hotel, about what seasons
were best, about how difficult it was to satisfy some customers,
about the problems of getting food for the restaurant. I was
nearly at the end of the fourth bucket when I asked her about the
ruins in the field.

"Si, the Tempiale ad Apollo," she answered thoughtfully.

At the time, her arms were deep into a vast mound of bread
dough and the aroma filled the kitchen. The smell made me think of
Ricci and my penis immediately twitched and began to harden.

"A temple to Apollo," I repeated. "Ricci said the beach was
called Apollyon, so I guess that makes sense. What do you know
about it?"

"My father find it years ago."

"Oh?"

"He was, ah what we call un archeologo, the English is
close,..."

"An archeologist?" I prompted.

"Yes. He find it. No one understand. They don't like what he
writes. My father try to write in England, but still is not liked.
The University of Padua dismiss him. He is screditato, how do you
say it? Ah, ruined. Then, the government give him the temple and
he decide to buy the Pensione. He dig for many years. Le more lo
hanno coperto in su ora."

"Huh?" I asked, wondering why he was discredited as much as
what she had said.

"She say the brambles covered it up," Ricci interjected as he
breezed into the kitchen.

He was attired in black trousers and a starched white shirt,
open to his chest to reveal the strands of coral beads. He smirked
at me as he brushed past. Playfully, I slapped at his bottom, but
he darted out of reach. He stopped in front of the stove and
lifted the lids off the pans to inspect. The aroma filled the
kitchen and made my stomach growl.

"The tables are set, Mama," he announced as he lifted out the
wooden spoon from one pot and cautiously tasted the end. "My
favorite."

"The menus?"

"Yes, Mama. The menus too," he answered patiently. "I
printed them off while I getting dressed. What about the bram-
bles?"

"I was asking about the ruins, Ricci," I explained.

"Oh?" He licked the end of the spoon and put it back into the
pan. "I'm hungry."

"Some anguille, Ricci?"

"Okay. Is it good?" Ricci asked. He ambled over to the table
where Cecilia had been working earlier. He picked out a piece and
nibbled it. "You want some?" he said teasingly as he held out
another piece.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Anguille marinate." Ricci giggled. "Marinated eels. It's
good. Here, try some."

He walked over to me. Obediently, I opened my mouth and he
placed the strip of raw eel between my lips. I made a smacking
sound as I tried to kiss his fingers.

"What about the ruins?" Ricci asked as he danced back out of
reach.

He leaned against the table, stretching his body. He was lean
and slender, and his clothes were tight. The sight of his lithe
body bending, arching backwards, made my heart faster. In that
position, his groin bulged noticeably and his trousers enhanced
what nature had already provided.

"I was wondering about them," I answered. "It sounds like
your grandfather did some excavations over the years."

"There's a notebook with sketches, isn't there Mama?" Ricci
volunteered.

Cecilia nodded. "You can show him when he is having dinner,
Ricci. Now, I must get the bread in the oven. Mr. Gardner?..."

"David, please," I said. "You too, Ricci. No more Mr. Gart-
na!"

Ricci smirked. Cecilia laughed and dusted the flour from her
hands. In the space of a few minutes she had shaped the bread
dough into more than a dozen loaves.

"Si, David. You are finished?"

"Yes," I said. "Just done."

The last bucket of clams was finished. I rinsed my hands
under the tap and dried them on the towel.

"Good. Now you rest and get ready for dinner. Tonight is the
busy night. Very, very busy."

"Hurry, Mr. Gart-na. I will keep your table,... but not for
long," Ricci teased in a sing-song voice. He blew me what was sup-
posed to be a surreptitious kiss. Cecilia snorted but smiled as I
left them still talking and Ricci sampling the menu.

And so, dismissed from my kitchen duties, I returned to my
room. The bed was made, my toiletries were neatly arranged, even
my clothes had been straightened or carefully folded. I walked to
the window and looked out. One day! A single day was all it took
to completely change a person's life.

"I could be happy here," I thought aloud. "Very happy."

I sighed and stretched in the late afternoon glow. The shad-
ows were very long. It would not be more than a few minutes before
the shadows disappeared all together. I inhaled deeply, smelling
the fresh scent of salty air, of the geraniums growing in abun-
dance on the terrace below my room. In the distance, perhaps sev-
eral miles out at sea, several fishing boats were streaming nets
through tranquil waters. I could not imagine a more peaceful place
to live, or a more wonderful person to live with.

"Ricci,... Oh, Riccardi Guarini.... Ricci Gardner?" I chuck-
led. "Riccardi Gardner-Guarini. Guarini-Gardner? Of course, I'd
have to marry Cecilia."

One day! Not much more than twenty four hours and I had
fallen hopelessly in love with Ricci. His mother either knew or
expected that we had made love that afternoon. She accepted and in
some ways, even encouraged. Slowly, I calmed down.

"I could be happy here," I thought aloud. "Very happy
indeed." I sighed. "Ricci,... Oh Riccardi Guarini, how much I love
you.... Ricci Gardner?" I chuckled. "Riccardi Gardner-Guarini.
Guarini-Gardner? Of course, I'd have to marry Cecilia to do that,
but,..."



Chapter 9.



Knowing the Italian fondness for good clothes and the enthu-
siasm with which they embrace fashion, I took great care as I
showered, shaved, and dressed for dinner. I examined myself in the
mirror, and smiled. A few more days in the Sardinian sunshine and
I would begin to lose my northern pallor. What I needed was a day
on the beach with Ricci, perhaps at the secluded beach where he
went to swim naked.

The restaurant was filling up quickly by the time I arrived.
True to his word, Ricci had set aside the table next to the balus-
trade as my table, or at least I hoped that was the case. I
watched him taking an order for drinks and entrees. He smiled and
chatted with the customers. He paid particular attention to an
elderly woman who was dressed in what appeared to be a haute cou-
toure, black satin gown. In fact, he spent so much time talking
with her and smiling his perfect smile that it left me with the
distinct impression that he was flirting. It was hardly likely.
She was old enough to be his grandmother, or great grandmother,
but in my mind I was beginning to get jealous. Finally, he darted
off to the kitchen to deliver their order. A minute later he came
back and greeted me with a smile that left no doubt who he was in
love with. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and neatly pressed
black trousers. He looked very different to the boy I had spent
most of the day with.

"Bon sera," I said happily as I admired his slender body. I
ended at his face, finding myself in awe that any male could be so
beautiful.

He glowered at me. "It's buona sera, Mister Gart-na, if you
mean to say good evening. And bon giorno, for good day." He smiled
shyly. "Tonight it will be buona notte."

"Molte buona notte," I teased. "Especially if you play the
man, my little stallion."

"Shhhh. People will overhear if you talk loud here," Ricci
rebuked. He gestured to the side. "The sound, it,... what is the
word, comes back?"

"Echoes?"

"Yes. from the walls. Besides, if you want to say something
is very good,..." He lowered his voice. "Like you give me a very
good fuck today, you say 'molto buon'."

"How do I say you are a beautiful boy?"

Ricci smirked and raised his eyebrows. "Siete un ragazzo
bello," he whispered. "But I'm not."

"Yes, you are," I laughed. I gazed at Ricci for a few moments
while I tried to put the words together. "Siete un ragazzo molto
bello!"

"You sit on the terrace, Mr. Gart-na?" Ricci enquired pleas-
antly as one of the other waiters came close enough to hear us.

I glanced sideways and saw the waiter scowling. It was a look
of jealousy, of resentment, of warning. He was young, probably in
his late teens or early twenties. He had the dark-skinned swarthi-
ness that was typical of Sardinian men. He was so different to
Ricci that he was almost of another race. Strangely, he reminded
me of Bryce at that age. Had I still been a boy I wondered whether
I would be sexually attracted to him. When my brother was in his
late teens I was fourteen and he had lost interest in me. It did
not matter to him that I missed him when he went up to Edinburgh
University. I was broken-hearted for weeks.

"That would be nice," I answered blandly.

Behind me, I could feel the waiter's eyes on my back all the
way across the terrace, still watching until we reached my
assigned table. Ricci pulled the chair back with a bow and a
flourish that was both graceful and gracious.

"Un Campari?" he suggested. "Perhaps un Mirto?"

"Mirto?"

"Mirto,... It is Sardinian. Very strong. It's good, but I
can't drink much of it or Mama gets mad at me. I think you will
like it, David."

"What's it made from, Ricci?" I asked, grateful that we had
returned to first names.

"Ah,... From berries, ah,... the ones that are black. Some
grow in the ruins."

"Blackberries?"

"Yes. And the black sticks, they are like caramella, but very
strong. Mr. Alison call them sweets."

"Black sticks. You mean licorice?"

Ricci nodded. "Perhaps, would you prefer some of our wine
instead. It is like Torbato Terre Bianche." He nearly giggled.
"The grapes, they grow on that hillside. There is the hut where we
press them," he added as he pointed towards a very familiar land-
mark.

"Hm, yes, I think I was over there earlier today," I chuck-
led. "I even pressed a couple of grapes myself," I added, thinking
of holding Ricci's tiny testicles in my hand. He didn't get the
joke. "Yes, some wine would be nice. Perhaps I could try a little
of the Mirto later on. Like around bed time?"

Ricci smirked. "And to eat, Mr. Gart-na?"

I glanced over Ricci's shoulder. The boy had to have had
eyes in the back of his head, or incredible hearing. The other
waiter had approached and was performing some menial task at a
nearby table. I glared at him, met his dark, threatening eyes, and
waited until he moved away.

"What is his problem?" I asked pointedly.

"Roberto? Ah? He is trouble. He is with Father Pietro."

"Huh?"

"He is like me," Ricci said softly as he placed his note-pad
on the white linen tablecloth. "But he's not happy like me."

Keeping his hands in front of him where only I could see
them, he enclosed his left index finger in his right hand. He
moved it back and forth, and then slowly twisted it around. He
smirked and released his finger.

"Ha-ha, that kind of 'with'," I laughed. "Yes, I like that
kind of 'with', just so long as it's with you."

Ricci ignored my lewd innuendo although he clearly under-
stood. "You might like the marinated eels," Ricci teased. "Or
there is pane frattau, which Mama made only because I told her you
would like it. She make it for you."

"Pane frattau? What is it?"

Just looking at his big brown eyes was enough to melt my
heart. His lips, lips that I had tasted, kissed, and sucked on,
parted slightly. It was barely enough to show his teeth, the pink
of his little tongue. I would kiss him again in a few hours, again
and again, and not the way his mother kissed him.

"First she makes pane carasau. Mr. Alison call it music-
paper bread. It's thin, like pastry. Mama use percorino cheese and
boiled eggs, and tomatoes too, but for the special taste she add
anchovies. It's good," Ricci added as he rubbed his flat belly. "I
eat lots of it."

"Yeah, well as skinny as you are, you can't eat very much of
anything," I laughed. "Bring me some of those mussels I worked so
hard on too, will you?"

Ricci laughed. "Those are for the paying customers. For
their second course. Very expensive." He pointed to the menu that
he had placed on the table when I first sat down. "See. Fregola
with mussels and clams."

His finger pointed to a line on the paper, at the end of
which was a price, L 9,000. It was the equivalent of about two
British pounds, or $5.00 US. That was expensive? In fact, the most
expensive thing on the menu was the Sardinian swordfish at L
12,000. Of course, it was out of season still. I had to smile. A
person could live like a king on a hundred pounds a week, although
I expected the prices would be somewhat higher when the tourists
arrived from Northern Europe, but still! Cecilia's cooking was
among the best that I had ever tasted.

Ricci headed off towards the kitchen, leaving me with a bulge
in my trousers. I watched him until he was out of sight. His bot-
tom, what Americans vulgarly call a 'butt' was pure temptation. It
was not a 'bubble butt'. Far from it. What I saw, what I loved,
was almost entirely muscle, firm flesh, pinched cheeks, a crack
that was enhanced by his neatly pressed clothes. I dreamed about
him, dreamed of that wonderful warm crevice stretched wide open,
his little anus winking, teasing, waiting for my penis. Then
greasy and glistening with oil, open and willing, embracing the
head of my penis. He was back before I orgasmed on thoughts alone.

"Mama found grandfather's notebook, David," Ricci said.

He placed an opened bottle and a glass of citrine-colored
wine before me. He held out the notebook. On the cover was a name,
'Dott. Giacomo Riccardi Guarini, 1965', and a title, 'Excavations
of the Tempiale ad Apollo, Trinita d'Agultu'. Interestingly,
Ricci had been named after his grandfather. I wondered what
Ricci's middle name was. Giacomo? I would not have been at all
surprised.

I turned the first dozen pages. It was handwritten, with
numerous sketches throughout, all done in black ink and with great
precision. What was particularly interesting was that it was in
English. It took a few moments to figure out why. The language was
pedantic, academic, very formal.

"It's beautiful," I said in awe. "I'll take very good care of
it, Ricci."

I started to read, making sure that I kept the wine glass
well away from the book. It would not do to spill even a single
drop on it.

>From the outset, it was evident that the work was intended
for publication. It had been carefully researched and thoroughly
documented, with cross-references. It began with an overview of
the Greek settlements in Italy, and in Sardinia in particular. The
remains of a small town was located about ten miles further along
the coast from Trinita d'Agultu. Then followed a description of
the ruins. I gazed out over the hillside. As the daylight began to
fade into darkness, all I could make out was the grove of olive
trees, the long parallel lines of grape vines, and an expanse of
dark green that covered the temple ruins. At some point, perhaps
thirty or forty years ago, the brambles had been removed to expose
what remained of the temple. I went back to reading, although I
was not overly interested in the lengthy descriptions of archi-
tectural style (Ionian, hexastyle peripteral) or material (lime-
stone and marble). There were indications that the temple had been
extensively decorated with a marble frieze with mosaic floors in
the opisthodomos and in the perimeter ambulatory. Between the
adyton and the naos was a single, free-standing phallic column.
Following its construction in the fifth century BC, the temple had
been used for about two to three hundred years. It had been looted
over the years, although there were still considerable fragments
to be found on the site. It was orientated not to the east, but to
the Isola Rossa.

'There is clear and convincing evidence to support the
assignment of the temple to the God, Apollo (pages 15, 25, 64, 86,
87, 93, 110). Apollo, also referred to as the Pythian, was the
Greek God of Music, Poetry, Truth and Prophesy. He had an equal
role for the Romans. He bears similarity in his gifts and worship-
pers to Ra, Amon, Horae, Thoth and other Gods of Magic, Light,
Truth, Mystery and Prophesy. While often associated with the sun,
Helios, father of doomed Phaton, was the sun, and while there
exist tales of Apollo riding Helios' chariot, the image of Apollo
riding across the celestial spheres is a false image. Apollo is
usually depicted as an effeminate man in his twenties holding a
lyre and a stylus (see Apollonius). Greek legends indicate a
bisexual orientation (see Apollodorus, Pindar, Pausanias). Of
particular interest to the Temple of Apollo at Trinita are the
God's homosexual relationships with young men and youths.'

I smiled at that, and then suddenly looked up to find Ricci
standing beside me. He grinned.

"Is it good reading, David?" he asked politely.

"Interesting, yes," I answered. "Yum, you brought all that
food for me?"

Ricci nodded. He positioned a platter of delicacies on my
right side and a clean plate in front of me. "You like the wine?"
he enquired.

"Yes, very much. I'll never eat all of this," I said as I
feasted my eyes on the food he had brought. There were no mussels
or clams, but what there was a gastronomic delight to behold.
there was even some of the gnocchetti alla smeraldina.

"No desert for you, if you not finished everything, Mr. Gart-
na," he giggled.

Again, I watched his bottom as he hurried back to the
kitchen. That pert firm bottom, that beautiful little boy-bottom
under those black trousers. Was there anything as beautiful as
boy's bottom? No, not unless it was the part in the front of a
boy. Such a beautiful boy. No wonder it was hard to keep my mind
on what I was reading.

'Both Apollodorus and Pausanias relate the God's sexual
encounter with Hyacinth, son of Clio and Adonis. Hyacinth was a
beautiful boy who was also pursued by Thamyris, a Thracian and son
of Philammon, who is ascribed in some texts as being the father of
pederasty.'

It was all I could do not to laugh. If Hyacinth was anything
like Ricci, it was easy to understand why he would have been pur-
sued by both Gods and mortals. The next few paragraphs went on to
describe the role of Apollo in Greek and Roman society. While the
God was not exclusively 'homosexual', he was often relegated to
that position in some situations.

'That the Isola Rossa, an important feature of the coast-
line, was a symbol of the God's erect phallus, is clearly appar-
ent. It explains both the orientation of the temple in that
direction and the phallic column placed exactly on the axis,
thereby connecting the mortal and the divine in celebrating sex-
ual aberration. Further evidence of the Temple's unique function
can be observed in the mosaic floors (see pages 56-65). In every
case, the mosaics illustrate homosexual activity, with the vast
majority involving men and boys.'

Then, the two lines that were marked with an asterisk. The
lines that had stopped the excavation thirty-five years ago. The
lines that had brought ridicule to Dottore Giacomo Riccardi
Guarini.

'It is likely of the Temple, that it celebrated not only the
love between men, but by virtue of its connection with the Isola
Rossa with the greek fable, it is necessarily associated with the
love of Thamyris and Apollo for the young Hyacinth. (see mosaics
A5, A6, A10. Pages 54, 55, 60-61.'

I stared at the line, no longing reading. Inside, I felt as
if a hand had gripped my heart and squeezed. A temple to homosex-
uality? A temple to pederasty? certainly, given the importance of
man-boy love in ancient Greece, a temple with such a function was
only to be expected. It was all I could do to continue reading. My
heart was pounding. In the pages that followed, I began to under-
stand why the Dottore had been discredited. Although his words had
been carefully chosen, there was still obscenity in what he
described. The mosaics, just as the red- and black-figured vases I
had seen the British Museum, conveyed sexuality with very few
inhibitions. What his words did not convey, the ink-sketches said
with undeniable detail. One drawing showed a man with two boys,
achieving deep penetration while having oral sex. Page after page
followed. There were ten pages of mosaics and I was painfully hard
by the time I was finished. One of the mosaics in particular held
my interest. The boy was lying on his back with his feet behind
his head. The man, almost Priapus-like was squatting down to
insert a penis that was nearly two-feet long. The boy was smiling.
Thirty-five years earlier the predominant catholic attitudes
would have discouraged, even prevented public knowledge of the
ancient depravity.

"You read the book?" Ricci giggled knowingly.

I put it down and wiped my clammy hands on my serviette. I
nodded. From his taunting smile and the way his eyes sparkled
there was no doubt in my mind that Ricci had spent long hours
looking at the book.

"We do that," he said softly.

The book was open at page 60-61. The final drawing in the
'mosaic series' showed a slender young boy wrapped around a stand-
ing man. The man's penis bowed out as the boy slid down the long
hard length of it. His head was tilted back as he wailed in
ecstasy. He had obviously attained puberty based upon the arc of
semen that was being ejected from his uncircumcised penis. In the
fashion of the ancient Greeks, the foreskin was elongated. Very
likely the boy was supposed to be the young Hyacinth. The man
could have been either Thamyris and Apollo for there was nothing
in the picture to indicate a god's special status.

"Mine isn't anywhere near that big," I replied with a bold
wink.

Ricci smirked. "His is a lot bigger than mine too," he
observed. His finger pointed at the boy's erect penis. "He has
more skin on the end too," he whispered.

"Hm,... so he does," I admitted as I studied the narrowed tip
of the boy's penis.

Puckered and pointed like that, it looked like Ricci's
penis. However, Ricci was not even ten years old, so he was still
a couple of years away from puberty. From my visits to the British
Museum I knew that even the men had extended foreskins. I wondered
why. Given what I knew about foreskins, which was not a lot, the
foreskin shrank back when the boy reached puberty, decreasing
until the glans was barely shrouded. When erect, most mature boys
did not have enough foreskin to cover the head let alone form a
pucker over the end.

"Mama make the secondi piatti especially for you, David,"
Ricci explained as he lifted away the empty plates and replaced
them with a platter of It's pesce spada but with the mussels as
well. I tasted some of it. It's very good."

"I'm sure it is," I said honestly. "Everything she cooks is
superb."

His finger scooped into my food, into the sauce, and he
lifted it to his lips. He licked his finger sensuously, using his
tongue to get every trace. He had sucked my penis the same way,
exploring every part of it with his wriggling little tongue before
he took it through his lips. He had even swallowed my semen, or
most of it, yet the mere idea of Ricci eating from my plate sent a
thrill through me. His lips had tasted my food just as they tasted
my semen, my sperm. He belonged to me. He smiled shyly as if sud-
denly aware of what he had done. I shrugged and smiled back at
him. He had enjoyed what I was about to enjoy. He poured some more
of the wine into my glass, finishing the bottle.

"Mama works too hard," Ricci said ruefully. "It makes me
sad."

"I know. That's why I want to help. I'd do anything to make
you happy."

"That's why I love you," he said softly. "I bring you some
more vino, David."

My hand reached out and slipped over his as he tried to brush
away some of the crumbs from the bread I had eaten. Ricci stopped,
not moving, not moving his hand, feeling my warmth and strength
holding him still. He licked his lips. Casually, he separated our
hands. He smiled. He licked his lips again. Those perfect lips.
Those full, dark lips that not only promised passion, but deliv-
ered it as well. Once thing was obvious as he stood before me. I
would get all the exercise I needed with Ricci later that night.

I tasted the swordfish as Ricci headed off to the kitchen.
The flavor was delicious, a blend of garlic, mint and saffron,
unlike anything I had ever tasted. And the swordfish, perhaps a
few hours old, cooked to absolute perfection. With amusement, I
noted that Ricci stopped on the way to talk with a lady who was
dressed in a black gown. I recognized her immediately, but I had
to think for a few seconds until I remembered her name. Lucia, his
godmother, the woman who had helped care for him until a few years
earlier. To anyone who did not understand his vivacious manner it
almost appeared as if he was flirting with her.I knew better. Over
a distance of twenty meters (60 feet), our eyes met, Ricci's and
mine, and I salivated, licking my lips, not really caring what he
was talking about, just wishing that he was still next to me. I
had so much to talk with him about. I knew so little about him,
but I loved him more than I could stand. All I could think of was
Ricci, my darling beautiful boy. I took a deep breath and tried to
look away. He was just so beautiful that I had to breath deeply.
He was mine to love, and to cherish, and to make love to. Could
any person be so perfect?

Then, I glimpsed Roberto. He was clearing off one of the
tables and rearranging the seats. He gave me a sour look, narrow-
ing his dark eyes. He frightened me as much, perhaps even more
than Father Pietro. I was nearly finished with the second course
when the purpose of rearranging the furniture became evident.
There were two of them, middle-aged men one who carried a guitar.
The other man had a violin and a collection of connected pipes,
the ancient musical instrument called a launeddas. They took up
the chairs and repositioned them and sat down. The talking slowly
abated until all that was left was a background hum. They started
to play. The music was haunting if repetitive. There was compara-
tively little tonal variation in the traditional Sardinian folk-
songs, at least compared to the music I listened to. The
restaurant grew quieter. Even Ricci stopped by the entrance to the
kitchen to listen. I took pleasure in that, even if he had not
completed his self-assigned task of bringing me some more wine.

Nearly half a dozen songs later, one of the men beckoned to
Ricci.

"Ricci, viene qui e canta per noi," he called out.

It was obvious even to me with the little Italian that I had
managed to pick up, that he wanted Ricci to sing for him.

Ricci smiled and shook his head. "Devo aiutare Mama nella
cucina."

His mother came up behind him and gave him a playful push. "
giusto, Ricci. Cantate, il mio uccello piccolo di canzone.
Intrattenga i nostri clienti."

(It's okay. You sing, my little song bird. Entertain our cus-
tomers.)

People laughed as Ricci bashfully walked across the terrace
to where the musicians were seated. They talked for a few moments
before the music started again. This time the launeddas and guitar
joined in harmony. They played a brief refrain and then Ricci
joined in with his clear boy-soprano voice. I listened in awe. So
did everyone else. At the end, which came all too quickly, I led
the applause. Ricci smiled shyly and stuck his hands in his pock-
ets. He knew the applause was for him.

"Di nuovo, Ricci. Canti ancora per noi," someone called out.

"Si, Ricci. Canti prego per noi. Se non per loro, allora per
il vostro amico."

(Yes, Ricci. Please sing for them. If not for them, then for
your friends.)

If it was up to me, and I would not have embarassed him for
anything in the world, I would have gotten down on my knees and
begged him to sing. I nodded at Ricci hopefully. His voice was
wonderful, and in the setting, with the fabulous food I had con-
sumed, I was beginning to think I had died and gone to Heaven.
Fortunately, I did not need to make a spectacle of myself. He
began to sing. He did not stop after applause died away. In all he
sang six songs, most folk songs but he ended with the Italian
classic, 'O Solo Mia'. Through most of the songs, his eyes stayed
locked on mine. He was singing for me, but the last song was
really for my ears only. He was mine, just as I was his. We were
lovers. It was a love song, his song. It was his song just for me.
I stood and applauded. Within seconds I was joined by half a dozen
others, then a dozen more. Then everyone rose to their feet and
clapped for a beautiful young boy who brought happiness into their
lives.

Ricci was breathless when he made his way back to my table.
Again, he paused by his godmother and received her warm congratu-
lations. He beamed and even leaned down to her to receive the
obligatory kiss on his cheek. She patted his right buttock several
times before she gave his bottom a playful squeeze. A moment
later, he reached my table.

"You were incredible, Ricci," I gushed effusively. "I had no
idea you could sing like that."

Ricci smirked. He was on an adrenaline high. He was trembling
with pent-up excitement. He licked his lips and anxiously brushed
his hands through his hair. he shifted from one foot to the other.
Although he was not about to admit it, he had to realize that he
had kept the audience spellbound. Other than applause, and there
was a lot of it, there had not been a sound other than his sing-
ing. His singing was inspiring, and with the food and wine and the
incredible setting overlooking the ocean, I was in awe. Trinita's
scenery, Ricci's singing, his mother's cooking, all of it
together was unbelievable. That is could be enjoyed for some
twenty pounds a night, was inconceivable. A hundred pounds a
night, even more, was far entirely possible.

"Neither did I," he answered. He leaned closer, still pant-
ing as he breathed deeply. "Aren't you go to kiss me too?" he
teased as his face neared to with reach.

"Here?" I felt my heart surge. "You wouldn't dare, Ricci. Not
here. Not in front of all these people."

He smiled teasingly, silently daring me to do it. I wanted
to. I wanted to very badly. I was proud of loving him. There was
nothing shameful in being in love. He already wore my necklace
proudly, displaying it for all to see because his shirt was open
to the middle of his chest. Anyone who cared to look could see
that there was something between us. He was always coming over to
my table and spending a lot longer than a waiter would normally
spend with a single customer. I glanced around as innocently as I
could. There were still a lot of eyes directed towards Ricci. That
had to mean that people were watching us, and I assumed that more
than a few of them had heard the rumors about Ricci and the for-
eigner. Long seconds passed as we gazed at each other. His eyes
held mine, imprisoning me. This was love. He leaned closer. The
attraction was overpowering, pulling my head closer and closer.

At the last moment, I managed to divert my kiss to his cheek.
Ricci's head immediately swivelled, repositioning his lips so
that they pressed against mine. His hand moved to my chin. He held
me with two fingers and a thumb, not tightly, but firmly enough
that we kept kissing long after my display of approval for his
wonderful singing should have finished. His lips were soft, wet,
hot. I could feel his tongue wriggling against my lips, then
against my teeth, trying to pass through. Aware that he was not
going to stop kissing until I did something, and equally aware
that people were watching us, I placed my hand on his shoulder and
gently eased him away. My lips were wet, tingling with the taste
and heat from him. He smirked as he straightened up. He turned
slightly and looked over his shoulder.

Lucia gestured and smiled. It barely noticeably to anyone
except Ricci and me, and only because I was looking to see if any-
one was paying attention to what we were doing. To my eyes, it was
a sign of approval. All the same, it was disturbing and I wondered
what they had been talking about. For a while I even thought that
she might have encouraged him to kiss me, so aggressively had his
tongue been pushing forward.

Ricci turned back to face me. He made eye contact, giving me
a look that bordered on shameless as his hand casually brushed
across the small but very evident bulge in his trousers, and then
he winked. It was his way of telling me that just kissing me had
made his penis hard. He wanted me to know the effect that I had on
him.

"Me too," I chuckled. Ricci inclined his head. "I'm the same
way down there," I whispered quietly. I can't imagine why. I think
I'm in love."

He grinned at me. He did not ask who I was in love with for
the simple reason that he already knew the answer. His hand had
barely lifted away from his groin when someone called his name.

"Riccardi Guarini! Siete che andate portarci la fattura?"

"Pardon. Un momento per favore," Ricci replied over his
shoulder. He smirked at me and then continued in an exaggerated
voice. "The customers! Always the customers come first, Mama
says."

"That's okay. Go take care of him, Ricci."

"He wants his bill, but I want to stay here with you," Ricci
complained. "He won't even leave a big tip, that man. I don't like
him at all. He's a good friend of Father Pietro, but I think he
comes here to flirt."

"With you?" I teased.

Ricci scowled. "No! He's not like you. I think he likes
girls," he confided.

His voice was disapproving but I did not catch the nuance
that was there. I forged ahead ignorantly.

"I'm surprised," I replied flippantly, continuing the game
another step in the wrong direction. "He looked at you, Ricci,
while you were singing,... like he wanted to take your clothes
off."

Ricci shook his head curtly.

"Well, you're much better looking than any of them," I
announced. Ricci shrugged unconvincingly. "How can you be so
sure?" I asked.

"I've seen him, David. One day in the woods,... with one of
Mama's waitresses," Ricci answered.

"You've seen him?" Ricci's meaning gradually sank in. "Oh,
you mean,...." I smirked. "You saw them doing it?" I asked boldly.
"Making love?"

Ricci nodded slightly, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. He
averted his eyes.

"Si, stavano facendo l'amore,.... fucking,..." he added with
a frown as if my words 'making love' were unpleasant to him. The
vulgarism he used instead did not improve the situation. "She was
a girl still, David. She had her Confirmation the next day" he
continued.

It was difficult not to laugh. Fortunately, I did not laugh
because at that moment, the corpulent man who we had been talking
about pushed his chair back and rose awkwardly to his feet. He
took a few steps, enough to show that he was more than a bit ine-
briated from the wine. He supported his heavy weight on the near-
est table until he caught his breath, then summoning control,
managed to weave his way across to where I was sitting.

"Vi ho chiesto di portarmi la mia fattura, ragazzo. Devo
venire a voi ottenerla?" he growled menacingly. (see end of part
for translation)

Ricci immediately took shrank back, bringing his bottom next
to my side. He pressed against me, trying to find the words he
needed.

"Un momento, Signor," I said apologetically. "I don't know
what your problem is, but it can wait a moment until Ricci is fin-
ished here."

I don't think he understood more than a few words of English,
but he got the point. He pointed his finger at Ricci, but he spoke
directly to me.

"Ci  un ragazzo che manterreste il pi bene via da," he
said viciously. "Ha un corpo sporco e una mente ripugnante."

I smiled, as if a smile could displace his displeasure. The
people sitting at the two adjoining tables were staring at me, at
Ricci, and at this obscene obese man.

"I'm really sorry, but I've got no idea at all of what you
are saying," I said blandly.

"David,..." Ricci began. His hands were shaking. "Don't!" He
shook his head again and again. "Dicalo in inglese.  rude non a!"

"Il fairy piccolo desidera nessun altro capire? Si, Guarini,
if you wish it, I speak in Englich! Signor, this boy is evil. He
not belong in Trinita. He brings shame to all of us," he said
loudly.

"Oh? Really?" I asked with intended mockery and an exagger-
ated accent that was certain to annoy him even further. "Surely
not. He's just a boy. You say he is evil. I say he sings like an
angel. Trinita should be proud of him. I don't know what you said
earlier, but I know I didn't like how you said it."

Ricci tensed beside me. His hand gripped my shoulder. Like me
he was very aware of the stares directed at us.

"Il ragazzo  che cosa chiamata di Inglese 'gay'. Lui siete
un omosessuale. He is gay, a faggot, a queer."

"Really? And how do you know this?" I asked sarcastically.
"He's not even ten years old."

"You don't like girls, do you?" he taunted, still glaring at
me, but not speaking to Ricci.

"No!"

The man laughed cruelly. "Ah, so you like boys more than
girls?"

Ricci thought for a moment. "I ragazzi sono giusti."

I did my best to translate, but on the fly the best I could
come up with was 'boys are okay'. In front of an audience of what
had to be fifty people, he was admitting what he was.

"Ricci, you don't have to speak to this man," I interjected

Ricci gave me a threatening look, yet smiling slightly as he
started to look up to meet his tormenter's eyes.

"Gradisco gli uomini preferibilmente," he said under his
breath. It loud enough for people at the adjoining tables to hear.

The man started to say something, but stopped. Ricci's
mother had come out of the kitchen and was walking determinedly
across the terrace. She was still a few paces away when she spoke.

"Li ho bisogno di lavorare nella cucina," she said to Ricci.
She waited until Ricci was well on the way to the kitchen. "Signor
Gardner, Signor Ficello,  l un problema?"

"Non ci  problema, Signora. Il vostro figlio dovrebbe pas-
sare pi tempo in chiesa."

"Ha fatto gi pi di abbastanza! Il mio figlio ora  felice,"
Cecilia snorted angrily.

"Per che cosa il vostro figlio fa con gli uomini, andr al
hell, Signora."

"Ci  nessuno del vostro commercio. Non dovreste comunicare
come questo. Li desidero lasciare il ristorante."

The man shrugged. "Ho ancora pagare la fattura. Il vostro
figlio era troppo occupato con il suo amico."

Cecilia's response was a cold stare followed by a curt shake
of her head as she said, "Non ci  fattura. Permesso giusto ora."

The man turned and ambled away, bumping heavily against sev-
eral tables on the way across the terrace. Ricci had stopped
before he got to the kitchen and was watching from one of the
french doors that opened into the hotel. He was trembling and he
backed away into the room behind him as the man came close.
Cecilia sighed and slowly shook her head. All around us people
were staring, watching us. However I considered it, I had just
created an enormous problem for her and Ricci. It was the very
last thing I wanted to do.

"He is a bad one, that man," she said quietly.

"What did he say?" I asked self-consciously. "It was about
Ricci, wasn't it?"

"Yes,... About how he is,... with you. I told him it was none
of his business. Ricci is happy now, with you." Cecilia gave me a
sad look. "He only came here to make trouble tonight. Now everyone
knows the rumor is true."

"Is Ricci okay?"

"Ricci?"

"I don't want to hurt him, Cecilia. I would leave before I
did that."

"No, he loves you. By tomorrow, everyone in Trinita will
hear. Perhaps it is better this way." She shook her head accept-
ingly. "If you have finished your dinner, you should go to him. He
needs you."

"Oh!"

Finally, I realized what should have been apparent for
nearly a minute. My heart felt like it had been torn out. I needed
to be with Ricci as well. I hastily pushed my chair back. I felt
their eyes on me, assessing me, some accepting, but most reject-
ing. I walked in the direction where I had last seen Ricci. He
stood quietly, gazing out a window over a darkened view of the
Isola Rossa. The moon was rising. It was a full moon and the sil-
very glow made the rock look not only very mysterious, but
strangely sensual as well.

"Come to my room tonight, Ricci," I said very softly.

Ricci answered with a smile. My heart was pounding. Remark-
ably, for I had absolutely no idea why it was so, but I had under-
stood exactly what he said earlier when he was speaking with
Signor Ficello. Ricci had said that he liked men, instead of girls
or boys. He had said it quietly, but he had wanted it to be heard
by the people around him.

Chapter 10.



After dinner, I retired to my room to try to write a letter
to my business manager informing her that I would be spending an
as yet undetermined amount of time in Sardinia while I worked on
the photographs for a new book. I promised her that her gallery
would have the opportunity to show the work as soon as it was com-
pleted. However, even as I wrote in my clumsy cursive, I wondered
whether I would be leaving sooner than I wanted. While I dreamed
of spending the rest of my life with Ricci, the scene in the din-
ing room continued to disturb me. The anger, the resentment, the
distaste, was very evident. I had the feeling that I was not only
was I creating a difficult situation for Ricci and his mother, but
I was somehow placing him at risk. That thought was enough to make
me think twice.

I put down the pen and sighed loudly. "Oh! What to do?" I
thought aloud.

I stood up and ambled to the french-style window, picking up
my Hasselblad 500CM camera on the way past the bed. What I could
was well worth a roll of film. The moonlight made the ocean appear
surreal. The distant rock was almost silver in color, not red like
it was during the daytime. It had taken on an entirely different
character. It was mysterious, entrancing. As I gazed at it and
considered how to proportion the horizon on the square format, I
could almost feel it beckoning me like the ancient sirens had
called Ulysses. The air was fresh, laden with salt, invigorating.
This was a very different place compared to the busy noise-filled
streets of London. And then there was Ricci. Riccardi Guarini. The
boy I loved. I had to stay here. That was my destiny. It seemed
that all my life something had always been just out of reach. That
was until I met Ricci. My life had been thrown into chaos the
instant that I saw his photograph on the counter. I could never be
the same again. I needed to have Ricci as part of my life, my
whole life. I was meant to live here. I was meant to be his lover.
I did not hear the footsteps behind me until he was only a few
feet away.

"David,...." he said quietly.

I turned. Ricci was still wearing his waiter's clothes, at
least the shirt and trousers, but he looked different. He was
barefoot. I glanced away, back to the window, thinking how much I
loved him and how I could never live without him.

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?" I muttered.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, of course not. Why do you ask?" I looked back over my
shoulder for a few moments.

Ricci sucked his bottom lip. "David,... Tonight, after you
go upstairs, Mama talked to me for a long while."

"Oh?"

"I told her, David," Ricci said quietly from behind my back.

"Oh?" I still did not turn around.

Ricci coughed, trying to get my attention. I shook my head
slowly, knowing what was coming next. I did not what to look at
him. He did not need to say anything. She had forbidden him to see
me again. I would have to leave Trinita. He was in my room merely
to say goodbye. There was nothing I could say or do to change what
was going to happen. When I relented and turned around to look at
him, his shirt was no longer buttoned up. It was open halfway down
his chest, revealing smooth brown skin. Somehow, that change in
his appearance had transformed him. The innocent hard-working boy
had suddenly become very, very sexy. I stared at him, my mouth
open.

Ricci smiled strangely. He had never smiled like that before
with me. Sublime, radiant, curious, knowing, shy, bold. It was a
smile of contradictions, a smile that could melt the most resis-
tant heart. His smile consumed me. He licked his lips. His eyes
locked onto mine. His nostrils flared. He was intensely beauti-
ful. I had to swallow.

"Does she know you're up here with me?" I asked awkwardly.

The last thing that I wanted to do was to make Cecilia angry.
It was not simply because she was Ricci's mother. I liked and
respected her, and I was even beginning to look forward to being
her partner in running the Pensione Isola Rossa. Even after our
conversations of the last two days I was not at all certain what
she would say or do when she learned that her son and I were hav-
ing sex. She definitely seemed to accept the idea of us having a
relationship, but there was a big difference between agreeing in
principle and in allowing the practice.

So, I stood there, more afraid than I had ever been, waiting
for the answer. It seemed to take a long while before Ricci nodded
slightly. Maybe it was seconds. His eyes had not moved. That he
was not worried or nervous should have been a sign to me that
everything was all right, that nothing had changed between us.
Instead, I felt my face becoming hotter and an unsettling sensa-
tion that I had not had since I was a child. His mother knew! I
knew that she realized something had happened when she first saw
us after we came back to the hotel. Now, she had confirmation, and
Ricci was standing in my room at ten o'clock at night? A thousand
questions percolated through my mind, but I simply stared at Ricci
and tried to read his mind.

His fingers had stalled at the next button. Slowly yet
deftly, he unfastened it so that I could see a little more of his
dark skin. With the next button I would be able to see his navel.
His fingers lingered momentarily before they moved on, teasingly
playing with the next button.

"Um,... Ah,... What did she say?" I asked nervously.

Although the very thought of losing Ricci was enough to make
my stomach queasy, I had to know. I had to know what she had said
to him, how much Ricci had told her, what her response had been.

My voice sounded nervous. I was nervous. My hand was shaking
too much to hold the camera steady long enough to take a photo-
graph. Ricci did not answer. His fingers unfastened the button.
His tongue played with his bottom lip for a few seconds before his
teeth covered it. He looked so young, but not innocent, not the
way a ten-year-old boy is supposed to look. He looked bashful, yet
sensuous. And more. His dark eyes were coy, intensely arousing,
overpowering. Whatever his mother had said to him, it was enough
that he was in my bedroom at all.

"Take some more photos of me, David," he suggested casually.

His voice was teasing, yet I detected excitement. I stepped
back away from the window, one, two, three paces, until I was
almost next to the bed.

"There," I said hoarsely as I pointed to the open french-win-
dow. "Stand on the balcony." I had to make myself take a deep
breath. "Look out at the sea, or something."

Ricci walked forward. For the first time I observed how his
trousers emphasized his slender legs. They made his bottom look
more rounded, covering up the pinched, muscular cheeks that I knew
were underneath the black cotton. I could not take my eyes away
from him. Without any direction from me, Ricci took up a pose that
could have been done by a professional model. He leaned back
against the balustrade and arched his body backwards. His shirt
opened at the front to reveal a 'v' of skin from his navel to his
shoulders. At that instant a gust of window blew through his hair,
lifting his dark curls. Instinctively, he turned towards the sea,
uplifting his head to smell the fresh salty air. The moonlight
struck the side of his face. I stared.

"Well, you take a picture or not?" Ricci pretended to pout.

"Um, yes, sure," I muttered.

I lifted the camera and looked into the viewfinder. ed. With
the 80 mm lens, the image was nearly black. I did the calculations
in my head. Even at full aperture the shutter speed was 1/15 of
second.

"I'm going to need a tripod," I said. "Some more light would
be good as well."

Ricci shrugged and pointed up. "There is a light."

The balcony light was in the wrong place, too high and point-
ing downwards. It would destroy the moonlight effect that made the
setting so magical. I shook my head, still thinking about other
options as I hurried to get the tripod set up. Ricci waited
patiently, gazing out over the sea like a forlorn lover waiting
for someone to return. I set the bed-lamp on the floor and
directed the bulb towards the windows. After a couple of attempts
I had the effect I wanted. I took up position behind the camera.

"Okay, I think I'm ready," I said to get Ricci's attention.

He turned back and gave me a petulant look to show that he
was tired of waiting.

"Sorry," I muttered apologetically. Following instinct for
what made a good photograph even better, I pressed the shutter
release and hoped for the best. The look on Ricci's face when he
realized was priceless, but it was already too late.

"You should have warned me," Ricci reprimanded. Suddenly,
the petulant boy became bold. He smirked. "I pose for you, like
the photos Mister Alison show me on the computer."

"Huh?" I said distractedly.

My mind was on the camera settings, considering a the possi-
bility of using a smaller aperture to increase the depth of field.
It was important that the Isola Rossa was in focus.

"He showed me some photos of boys," Ricci said mysteriously.
"So I would know what to do. Are you listening?"

I still had not put two and two together. Perhaps I needed to
use a lens with a wider angle. The only problem with that was the
Isola Rossa would become even smaller in the image.

"Sorry, Ricci. I guess I wasn't paying attention," I
answered absently. "What did Bryce show you?"

Even as Ricci began to explain, my mind clicked. My brother
had shown pornographic photographs to Ricci. Perhaps he had even
shown the same photographs that he found on the Internet and kept
on his computer, the same photographs that brought a visit from
the Metropolitan Police and ultimately led to his suicide.

"He showed me photos of boys having sex," Ricci said frankly,
as if he had said 'Bryce showed me photos of boys eating ice-
cream.'

"He did? Oh? Um, well,..."

I fiddled with the camera knobs, winding on the film to the
next frame. My mind was in overdrive. It was not hard to imagine
Bryce showing pornographic photographs to a boy. In his letter to
me he claimed to have a thousand or more of them. Some of the pic-
tures were in his words, 'quite obscene'. For my brother, 'quite
obscene' must have been truly disgusting.

"So I understand what men do to boys," Ricci continued. He
smirked. "So I see what goes in their bottoms."

"Oh?"

Bryce had never shown me pictures, but he would have had they
been available to him. I swallowed and licked my dry lips. I could
stop the sudden surge of excitement. I should have been ashamed. I
was not, not in the slightest.

"So, um, well I guess that's the kind of man he was," I
replied.

"I know you are different. You love me like Mama does," Ricci
said. He hesitated. He looked at me directly, coy again, beyond
mere teasing. "If you want I will take my clothes off so you can
take photos of me," he offered boldly.

"Would you like me to?" I managed to get out.

I could feel my penis sneaking down the leg of my jeans as it
became erect, becoming a noticeable bulge. In a few moments it
would be uncomfortable. Ricci shrugged. His eyes flickered.
Instinctively, I pressed the shutter button and the camera made
its mechanical click.

Ricci's small hand fumbled at the front of his trousers. The
belt was black leather and very shiny, even in the moonlight. That
simple gesture and the expression on Ricci's face made another
photograph worthwhile, but I had not wound the film on. My eyes
remained on Ricci as he continued to undress. I cranked the lever
to the next frame, ready to press the shutter when the timing was
right. Ricci opened the button, tugging on his zipper until it was
open, until the front of his trousers parted far enough to reveal
the contrasting white of his underpants. Without any reason other
than realizing that he was stripping, he giggled. That photograph
captured his innocence, his playful delight in being human, his
joy in doing what he was doing, showing himself to me.

"One day on the beach I take everything off for Mr. Alison,"
Ricci remarked offhandedly. "He take some photos of me, but he
said they didn't turn out."

"Just wait until you see these photos."

Ricci grinned. Without any assistance from him, his trousers
had slipped down his slim thighs to bunch around his knees. There
was a bulge in his briefs. It was not a large bulge, but it was
obvious what caused it because the head of his penis was outlined
in the cloth. Again, I pressed the shutter release, capturing
Ricci's surprise. He grinned back at me, protectively cupping his
right hand over his groin to conceal what should have been pri-
vate, but was not. Even if no one else would ever see it, that too
was a picture worth a thousand words. he waited patiently until I
wound the film on and took the photograph.

"Now I take off my slip," Ricci teased, "so you can make pho-
tograph of my dick."

His 'slip' was the equivalent of a low-rise brief, and from
my experience very different to the boxers or 'tighty whities'
that most English and American boys wore. It hid what needed to be
hid, but it did not leave a lot to the imagination.

Like a stripper, Ricci hooked his thumbs under the elastic
waistband and pulled it downward. Of course, like that, the inev-
itable happened. His erect penis was caught under the elastic and
it was dragged down as well. Needless to say it became much
stiffer and it stuck out like a lever. I smiled as Ricci smirked
at me. He was not even ten years old and he was showing off his
body like he had years of experience. It did not matter that his
fully erect penis was about the size of my finger. I took another
photograph of him like that. Ricci helped by making a face that
suggested he was in great pain. It was hardly the sort of photo-
graph that a professional took, but it was funny.

I took the next photograph when Ricci's briefs were on the
bed beside me. He had balled them up and thrown at me when I
didn't photograph him masturbating. He was beyond the 'playing'
stage. Without any encouragement from me, and much to my surprise,
he started rubbing his penis while he leaned back against the bal-
ustrade. His foreskin came back on the first downward motion and
then he masturbated like a teenager, with two fingers in front and
his thumb looped around the other side. Once he had hit me in the
face with his briefs, he turned side-on. He was still masturbating
when I pressed the shutter button, but he was not doing it so bla-
tantly. What I saw, and what the film recorded, was far more inti-
mate than a boy showing off his sexuality. This was a sulky boy, a
boy still in his shirt, the tails of which were covering most of
his bottom. Almost as soon as I wound the film on, the moment had
been lost for Ricci had become rapt in the sensations that ema-
nated from his penis. He was dreamily gazing out over the ocean.
That pose would make a perfect photograph, but for one thing.

"Take off your shirt," I suggested huskily.

For a few seconds Ricci either didn't hear or he ignored me.
He moved slowly. His shirt, already open at the front, slowly slid
down from his shoulders. First the left arm, then the right arm
came free. Without acknowledging my presence, he went back to that
timeless pursuit of all boys once they have discovered how good
their penises can feel. I took a deep breath. All my training said
take the photograph immediately. However, I waited. When I
finally pressed the button Ricci was experiencing a pre-orgasm
spasm. His body arched and became tense. His buttocks clenched,
pinching the smooth mounds, tightening around his anus as the
pleasure suddenly increased.

I knew that was the last frame left on the film, even without
looking at the counter or testing the lever. I continued to watch
him. He rubbed his penis slowly, using a languid easy motion that
came from not wanting to go too far by himself. He was saving him-
self while he savored the delight.

"I love you, Ricci," I said softly.

Ricci turned and looked over his shoulder, casually squeez-
ing his penis so that the exposed head flared and bulged. "I love
you too, David." He tilted his head, studying me as I stood behind
the camera. "Tonight, Mama and I talked a lot about what it means
to be in love."

"What did she say?"

"Dovrei fare che cosa ritengo che la parte interna  di
destra," Ricci answered. He giggled when I frowned at him. "Well,
that is what she said."

"In English," I countered.

He stopped giggling. It was time to be serious. "She says I
should do what I feel inside is right, David. She means in my
heart," he added, touching his chest. "Not up here. I should not
think and worry, but to do what I need to do to be happy."

I nodded thoughtfully. What he said made a lot of sense to
me. "Come to bed, Ricci. You're going to be the man tonight."



END PART 3.





TRANSLATION: The Incident in the restaurant.



"I have asked to you to bring my bill to me, boy. I must come
to you to obtain it?" he growled menacingly.

Ricci immediately took shrank back, bringing his bottom next
to my side. He  pressed against me, trying to find the words he
needed.

"Un momento, Signor," I said apologetically. "I don't know
what your problem is, but it can wait a moment until Ricci is fin-
ished here."

I don't think he understood more than a few words of
English, but he got the point. He pointed his finger at Ricci, but
he spoke directly to me.

"That is a boy that you would best keep well away from," he
said viciously. "He has a dirty body and a repugnant mind."

I smiled, as if a smile could displace his displeasure. The
people sitting at  the two adjoining tables were staring at me, at
Ricci, and at this obscene obese man.

"I'm really sorry, but I've got no idea at all of what you
are saying," I said

blandly.

"David,..." Ricci began. His hands were shaking. "Don't!" He
shook his head again and again. "You should say it in English. It
is rude not to!"

"The little fairy doesn't want anyone else to understand?
Yes, Guarini, if you wish it, I  speak in Englich! Signor, this
boy is evil. He not belong in Trinita. He brings  shame to all of
us," he said loudly.

"Oh? Really?" I asked with intended mockery and an exagger-
ated accent that was certain to annoy him even further. "Surely
not. He's just a boy. You say he is evil. I say he sings like an
angel. Trinita should be proud of him. I don't know what you said
earlier, but I know I didn't like how you said it."

Ricci tensed beside me. His hand gripped my shoulder. Like me
he was very aware of the stares directed at us.



"The boy is what is called in English ' gay'. He is a homo-
sexual . He is gay, a faggot, a queer."



***** Later, with Ricci's mother:





"I like men much more," he said under his breath. It loud
enough  for people at the adjoining tables to hear.

The man started to say something, but stopped. Ricci's
mother had come out of the kitchen and was walking determinedly
across the terrace. She was still a few paces away when she spoke.

"I need you to work in the kitchen," she said to Ricci. She
waited until Ricci was well on the way to the kitchen. "Signor
Gartner, Signor Ficello, is there a problem?"



"There is no problem, Signora. Your son should spend more
time in church."

"He has already, more than enough! My son is happy ," Cecilia
snorted angrily.

"For that what your son does with the men, he will go to the
hell, Signora."

"That is none of your business. You should not speak like
this. I wish you to leave the restaurant. ."

The man shrugged. "I have still to pay the bill. Your son was
too occupied with his friend ."

Cecilia's response was a cold stare followed by a curt shake
of her head as she said, "There is no bill. Please leave now."