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In the mid-eighties I was a 17-year-old boy, not particularly tall (I took after my mother), but well-proportioned. I had been attending a rowing school for a couple of years. Slowly my body was transforming. I had seen some nice muscles sprouting up along my arms and around my shoulders. The morning run had reduced the belly I had put on during puberty and I was shaping a nice ass.
I didn't consider myself a "beautiful", one of those that were in magazines or on TV, but not even one to be thrown away: regular features, green eyes (like my mother) and brown hair, which I always preferred to keep very short. I never could stand the heat and - where I was born - summer lasts many months of the year, and it's particularly sultry.
Ever since I was a little boy I have always kept my attraction for men well hidden. In the small town where I lived, in the Sicilian hinterland, being gay was still a taboo, a source of ridicule at school and shame for the families of declared homosexuals.
When I began to understand in which direction my sexual desires were going, in reaction I tried to imitate the most "male" in the country, soon learning to smoke, to run around everywhere on a motorbike with reckless manoeuvres in spite of any prohibition, to play football and to keep well hidden any attitude that could betray heterosexual appearances. In other words, I learned to play a role. I told myself that when I was 18 I would leave the village to start my life, the real one, elsewhere.
My best friend's father, Enrico, was perhaps the first man to arouse my sexual curiosity. Tall, dark brown, hedgehog, bearded, muscular and very hairy, he stood in front of the TV watching football games while Enrico and I played in the yard. I remember that my eyes always ended up falling on the huge package that Mr. Salvatore kept in a nice pose a few meters from us (the living room overlooked the courtyard and with the sliding doors formed almost a single room), plunged on his deckchair a few meters from us, very hairy thighs well spread out, and the tank top that barely hid that hairy torso, slightly overweight, tanned and sweaty. I remember very well the shock I had one afternoon. My friend Enrico had gone to pick up I don't know what game in his room. I stayed in the yard and kicked the ball. Mr. Salvatore had his eyes closed and snored loudly, his mouth wide open. He'd eaten and drank a lot, obviously. That day it was particularly hot and, before sitting in his deckchair, he had taken off his tank top and left it on one of the armrests.
I admired in a sort of abduction her nipples surrounded by black hair, the mass of hair going down to her navel, her belly rising rhythmically with her breath, and the hair going down to her white boxer shorts. It was at that moment that my heartbeats suddenly accelerated. The front slit of the boxer shorts was open. A thick mass of black, frizzy hair came out as if seeking breath on a sultry day. For a moment I was frozen. Then, almost like an automaton, I slowly took a few steps forward, silent and shrewd as a cat. When I arrived at a short distance from that vision that was revealing my definitive and authentic identity, I could see that beyond the skein of hair I could glimpse the base of a wide, dark and full of veins dick. The slit revealed just a few inches of it, but it was enough to send my blood to my brain and mark me for life. Now I had no more doubts. From that moment on, I knew who I was and what I wanted. Henry returned to the courtyard and I was just in time to look away and pretend to look for the ball.
A few months later, Enrico and his family would move away. Mr. Salvatore remained in my memories the highest expression of masculinity and of my desires.
While waiting to reach maturity and escape from the village, I continued to pretend and try to mimic the group of heterosexual boys that I frequented. By now I had learned more or less everything. But the hardest thing was to hide my desires. In particular, the village dads were a real diabolical temptation. I saw them walking in the village or visiting my parents' house, with their prominent bellies, hairy arms, mustaches, beards, calloused hands, feet sticking out of sandals or clogs in the middle of summer. I longed for them like water in the desert.
But, precisely because of my plan to move, I kept my desires well hidden and tried to think about something else, concentrating on sport and study. I never thought that one summer evening, the summer of my seventeenth birthday, I would experience my sexual initiation in the most filthy and sublime way I could have ever imagined, fulfilling my fantasies, indeed overcoming them.
It all happened because of a dad who, not surprisingly, until now I have not mentioned him. My father.
My father was a very closed man, of few words, distant and severe. He was almost always busy in his workshop. And when he wasn't there, he used to play cards with his friends at the village bar, or go fishing or hunting. I've never seen him take the slightest interest in me. I always thought that my marriage to my mother was the result of a one-night stand where I was conceived. The fact is, I've never seen a gesture of love or sweetness between my mother and father. One night I heard them arguing. My mother reproached my father for having another woman, a hairdresser from a village next to ours. In fact, it was a rumor that had been going around for a long time. My father didn't even try to deny it. He told her that men have needs and demands and that she didn't even look at him anymore.
After that night, I began to look at him. My father was shorter than Mr. Salvatore, and had a more prominent belly. And yet he was not fat, he was more robust, stocky, with well-proportioned, muscular arms, shoulders and legs, which counterbalanced the protruding belly. In terms of hair, he had nothing to envy of Enrico's father. But unlike the latter, he also had hair over his shoulders and on his back. In short, he was a handsome male, with a beard, mustache, thick eyelashes and a beautiful bald spot that made him definitely sexy. I'd always ignored him, just like he ignored me. But that nighttime argument between him and my mother, about sex and betrayal, had suddenly revealed him to me as a man, as a boy. That night he had just turned 17, it was February. And from that moment on, until the summer, it was a crescendo of situations and pretexts to admire him and discover him in all his virile beauty. What's more, unlike Mr. Salvatore, my father had him under my eyes, for what little he was at home, and there was no lack of occasions and pretexts.
Up to that moment I had never seen him naked. So I tried to make up for it. I gave it my first try one night. My father had just come home from work, tired and pissed off. I saw him go into the bathroom, definitely planning on taking a shower. Shortly after I saw him enter the bathroom, taking advantage of my mother's absence, busy helping a neighbor, I started spying on him through the door lock. Unfortunately, I could see little or nothing. I could catch a glimpse as he pulled down his trousers from behind and put them on the stool, and then approached the toilet. He was pissing. I had a very powerful and immediate erection. He had turned his back, I could see nothing but the back of his hairy thighs and hear the sound of the powerful jet of urine in the toilet flush. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken off his underpants. I could only guess at his big hairy buttocks hidden by the white panties. Then he moved and out of my sight. I was willing to stand there for hours, waiting for him, naked, coming out of the shower cubicle, maybe he would pass within my sight. But all I could hear was the roar of the water. Soon my mother returned home and I was reluctantly forced to leave my post.
The second chance came several weeks later. This time it was me using the shower. I'd returned from a day at the beach with the village party. I was hot and sweaty and needed a shower to wash away the salt and sand from head to toe. While I was there enjoying the jet of water along my body, I heard noises behind me. I turn around and from the glass in the walk-in closet I see a silhouette standing opposite the toilet. I open the door slightly and see my father on the side, wearing shorts, taking a piss. My heart stops, just as it did when I saw the hair and the base of Mr. Salvatore's cock.
My eyes went straight to the object of my desire. I was just in time to catch a glimpse of something dark and wide, his foreskin, from which the jet of piss came out, that my father's voice distracted me from that vision "I was shitting my pants, you've been in there for an hour". Then he looked at me a little puzzled, redirecting his gaze back to where my eyes had been a moment before he spoke. I had the impression that he was hinting at a grimace of reproach, but perhaps it was I myself who was reproaching myself for my excessive brazenness. The fact is that he shrugged it off (but I could only sense it from the movement of his arms, because at that point I was looking him straight in the eyes), pulled up his shorts and came out.
It goes without saying that I jerked off the most intense saw of my life under the roar of water, trying to revitalize that wide, dark foreskin and that powerful jet of piss.
I had to wait at least a month, it was almost Easter, for a new opportunity to present itself. I was busy repairing my moped in the garage, when I heard my father arrive with one of his friends from the village, Mr. Arturo, another short and stocky fifty year old who was called the "Turk," because of the Turkish moustache he used to wear, and because of his particularly dark complexion. My father, so I heard him say, wanted his friend, who was the town plumber, to take a look at the small bathroom we had in the garage. For some time it tended to get blocked up and the water stagnated, causing a bad smell. There and then I left them to their speeches and I kept on fiddling with the engine of my moped. At a certain point I heard them laughing and saying something that caught my attention. "Of course, you have to fill it up and see if the exhaust works or not", said Mr. Arturo. "Either I go fill a bucket of water and we throw it in, or we use it," my father replied. At which point Mr. Arturo, lowering his zipper, "I've been drinking since this morning and I haven't flushed yet," and pulled out a cucumber not particularly long but stumpy as a torch, venous and swollen, as if it were a joke, with a nice long, rippled foreskin. "if you don't mind, I'll save you a bucket of water." And he started pissing in that old, clogged, smelly toilet. I was petrified, pounding my guts out. It was the first fucking adult male (and what a male!) I could see a few yards away and no obstacles to the show. My father started laughing and said "Of course, with the two beers drunk in the village I think I'll take advantage of it too, since we have to try the drain". And at that point I was ready to faint. Not only was I admiring a big, hairy, dark and knotty prick, belonging to one of the stallions of the village, the "Turkish". But the dick that I had been dreaming about for months was about to reveal itself to my eyes, a few steps away from me, and I had done nothing to guarantee this show. While Mr. Arturo pissed profusely and sighed for the pleasure of releasing his bladder, my father lowered his shorts and lowered his panties. A mountain of black, frizzy, thick skin surrounded a trunk that left me breathless. I had now reset my salivation to zero. My father's trunk was as wide as Mr. Arturo's, but also longer and with a larger and darker chapel, which was revealed in all its splendor as soon as my father pulled up the abundant skin of his foreskin, also dark. Along the whole cock ran big, purplish veins. It was the most horny and intense spectacle I'd ever seen. While I was staring at that wonder of nature, my father's jet of piss began to cross with that of Mr. Arturo, which had not diminished even a little in intensity and volume.
My father also sighed for the feeling of liberation. I stood there, in admiration of those two males who fully responded to all my most hidden erotic fantasies. The fact that one of those two boys was my father made the situation even more erotic. The toilet had to be filled with the piss of these two steers, because the two jets took a long time to run out and become extinct. Both of them were squirting each other's hydrants almost in unison. Mr. Arturo was the first to put the beast back in his pants, followed by my father in his blue Bermuda shorts. Then Mr. Arturo tried to flush the toilet. Water came out of the drain, but instead of flushing it down the sewer, it filled the toilet completely and came out, taking with it the hectoliters of piss my father and the plumber had just deposited.
"Shit!" my dad exclaimed. The two of them barely had time to move so as not to get their shoes wet. The water quickly formed a puddle around the toilet. Only then did my father seem to realize my presence (in fact he always ignored me). "Pietro, go get the rag and clean, while Mr. Arturo and I go get the tools". The two of them climbed onto my father's bus and quickly headed for the plumber's workshop. Before going to get the rag and clean, in a state of erection and total loss of any inhibitory brake, I took advantage of the empty house and there, in the silence of the garage, left alone, I pulled down my shorts and underwear and shot the second best saw of my life in front of that lake. I was on top of the world.
By then my life had become like a drug addict's life. I was living for a dose, a dose of vision of that trunk I'd been lucky enough to see in all its glory. But it certainly wasn't enough for me. I also wanted to touch it, smell it, taste it, kiss it and feel it grow in my mouth, until it took my breath away, making me fuck my throat, as I had heard from the stories of my friends in the village, when they boasted about the shit they did with hookers or girlfriends. I also had the pleasure of a double vision, that of my father and Mr. Arturo. In the saws I did from that day on, I dreamed of kneeling under those two steers and taking their piss in my face and all over my body, before being fucked in the mouth and in the ass by both of them.
I imagined a thousand variations. And I couldn't stop dreaming. Meanwhile, the reality was always the same. My father was shy, absent, distant, with the usual attitude of indifference mixed with intolerance towards me and my mother. But my mind was now lost. The resentment had given way to desire and lust. I longed for that male, or rather, those two boys, as if one was not my father and the other a gentleman who had seen me grow up and who was the father of two boys in my group.
But what could I do? As Enrico advised me, the wisest thing was certainly to keep any temptation at bay, to keep on acting and wait for the escape from that damned country, But what could I do? My mind had gone off on a tangent, like that of the junkies. For some time I was able, despite this, to resist, thinking about school and going out with the group. Then came the summer, very hot, and fate took over.
It was a night at the end of July. My mother had gone to her younger sister's village, pregnant with my cousin. I had stayed with mine, who that evening had invited Mr. Arturo, Beppe, the town electrician and father of another boy in my group, and Rosario, called Saro, a retired marshal. Beppe was my father's age, forty-eight years old, he was a little taller than my father and very strong, hair and beard salt and pepper. Also from the camisole and thighs and calves came out a lot of salt and pepper hair. Saro was a big, big beast. Also very hairy, he was characterized by a very ape-like face, almost Neanderthal, with a single thick eyelash that ran without interruption from one temple to another. Saro had a cavernous voice and a laugh that made the glass shake. He was really a beast, but he was also a good man, very respected and esteemed in the village. He was the father of five children, two of whom had emigrated to Germany.
The four of them were busy playing poker on a plastic table in the forecourt of our house, in front of the garage. My mother's absence allowed them to drink beer in industrial quantities, burp, swear, fart and behave like fellow soldiers on leave, without the slightest regard. They were relaxed and visibly bright. I watched them from my bedroom window, which overlooked the garage forecourt. That night I hadn't gone out, because the whole group had left to go to a rock concert in a neighbouring country. I didn't want to go, so I stayed home.
While I was spying on them and listening to them, when I got to I don't know which round of beers, I realized that they were really drunk. My dad was talking about the hairdresser he was fucking at least once a week now. Mr. Arturo was bragging about hitchhiking a Swede near his plumbing workshop. He took her to his campsite, but not before he wildly fucked her in the car. At which point Beppe revealed his passion for a girl from the village, in her early twenties, who was friends with one of his sons. I knew her too, and I considered her a shy and very sweet girl. Beppe told in great detail how the sexting girl loved to get fucked in the throat or in the ass. She was a real slut, according to him, who couldn't do without her dick. But the story that left me open-mouthed was that of the beast, of Signor Saro, the retired marshal, father of five children and already a grandfather at fifty-eight. Apparently, my English teacher, a woman who was in fact pleasant and still well put for her almost fifty years, liked to get pissed on. And even more she liked getting pissed on, possibly by many men. When both my father and the other two began to touch each other's packages, asking more details from Saro, who, for his part, showed - and I could see it even from a distance - from the window of my room - an abnormal erection under the yellow canvas shorts she wore, which with difficulty contained that buoy that was growing as soon as I could see. They were very excited. Saro, while he too was massaging that python he had between his legs, was pressing on with his story, explaining about the group of truck drivers and his former fellow marshals with whom, at least once a month, they organized these evenings with my professor in heat, in abandoned farmhouses or, as he was explaining, also, on the last occasion, in the school bathroom, at night, with the complicity of the janitor, a short and stocky 50-year-old man, who had obviously allowed the use of our boys' bathroom, in exchange for his participation in the crowd.
At that point something happened that changed the course of my life, besides the epilogue of an evening otherwise based on broken free and dirty confessions between four old friends. Saro, completely drunk and totally horny, asked my father where he could go to take a piss. As he asked, he got up, and his beast popped out of the left side of his shorts. It was huge, the biggest dick I'd ever seen, long, stocky and knotty like a tree branch. Tough and menacing, completely run off. Everyone laughed and my dad said, "Well, if you can piss like that..." And then he added to go into the bathroom inside the house, because the one in the garage was unfortunately clogged again.
It was a moment. Almost as, years before, I had moved like an automaton, silently approaching my friend's dad's package, this time too, moved by libido and years of repressed desires and fantasies, I rushed to the bathroom, making sure I got there before Saro, to maybe hide inside the shower and spy on him. It was an absurd idea. The glass door would not protect me. But I was out of my mind, my desire for cock had taken over. So I went into the bathroom and, with the light off, I slipped into the shower cubicle. The next thing I knew, the light was on. He didn't even bother to close the door. He was completely drunk, staggering around, and he was all sweaty. He pulled down his shorts and pulled out this inhuman thing. It was obvious that he could never, ever piss. And in fact, his intentions were quite different. With his left hand he began to caress those two big hairy testicles dangling beneath his trunk, and with the other hand he began to slowly brush himself, closing his eyes.
I was out of my mind. I was practically in front of him, because I had opened the shower door. I had kneeled down and was sawing myself off too, in total adoration of that truncheon a few steps away from me. I didn't even realize that Saro had opened his eyes and was looking at me. I didn't realize it until he stopped sawing himself. He was holding that beast in his hand and holding it steady, straight and hard and pointed in front of him, therefore towards me, like a gun. His eyes went from bewilderment to a grimace of contempt, as if they had seen something inconceivable. He held up that one thick eyebrow that ran over his eyes as if he wanted to punish me with his gaze. But then, almost imperceptibly, he slowly began to massage his cock, continuing to look at me. Then I felt something hit my eyes. I dried myself with one hand. He spit in my face, "You're a fag! And who would have thought that Mimmo's son was a fag, that he likes dick!". And another spit went off, which came straight to my lips. With my tongue I took that saliva and tasted it like a rare nectar. "Fuckin' hell, what a shit." At that point, while masturbating faster and faster, Saro did something I never expected, marking my destiny forever. "Mimmo" I shout with that cavernous voice, "but did you know that you were a faggot?". Silence. I wanted to die. On the other hand, the three stopped laughing and talking. The silence was followed by the golden rumors of the chairs that were moving away and the footsteps that were advancing. I was trapped, kneeling in the walk-in closet in my parents' bathroom, my shorts down and my dick in my hand, with a friend of my father's blocking the road in front of me and with his trunk in a shot a few inches from my face.
Still, I waited for my fate. A few seconds later I saw my father enter, followed by Beppe and Arturo. The four of them looked at each other and then looked at me, kneeling, with his dick in his hand in an evident state of excitement despite the fear and shame. My eyes expressed terror, but my dick expressed anything but terror, in front of those four straight steers, pigs, drunken and drunk. Something must have spoken for me, a voice from my libido in direct contact with theirs. I don't know what this voice said, but something like "I'm not a 17-year-old boy, I'm not a son or a friend of your children. Tonight I'm your bitch." All I know is that after a few moments of silence, which seemed to me to last hours, my father approached me, overtaking Saro and putting himself in front of me.
"I always thought you were a fag. In my opinion, you're not even my son." At that moment I didn't know how to interpret that sentence. If we had been in a novel of formation, these few words would have represented the revealing moment, as in the feulletton of the nineteenth century, where in an instant you can understand why a father's resentment towards his son or presumed one. However, I wasn't in a formation novel, but in front of a forty-eight-year-old man who was, until proven otherwise, my biological father, and who in a few seconds, in front of my eyes, lowered his Bermuda shorts and pulled out a beast that, now that he was fully dressed, equalled Saro's, who in the meantime continued to jerk like a truncheon shaken by a policeman.
It was a matter of a few moments. My father slapped me with his cock, as if it were a whip, and then with his hand he grabbed my chin and forced me to open my mouth. In one fell swoop, I felt that beating beast push its way down past my tonsils, forcing its way down my throat. It tasted like piss, sweat, male. My father put his hands around my head and started fucking me like my mouth was a pussy, like he was fucking the hairdresser he was cheating on my mother with. In the meantime he insulted me, told me I was a slut, a whore, that he was going to break me and make all his friends break me.
My face kept slamming furiously against his hairy pubis, while his balls were slamming against my chin, my lips were widened to the unlikely and my throat was drilled into my esophagus. I wanted to vomit, but his blows were so violent and rapid, that at one point his tonsils had given way, surrendering to the assault and dilating the opening of my throat to the point of welcoming that python. In the meantime the saliva descended copiously to the sides of my mouth, dripping on my father's balls, on his thighs, as well as on my neck and chest. Now I no longer had a mouth, but a pussy planted under my nose.
In that position I couldn't see what the other three were doing. All I know is that they were encouraging my father, inciting him to fuck my throat like I was the worst bitch in the country. At one point my dad pushed my head so far up against his pubis that I actually thought I was going to suffocate to death. I remained motionless, convinced that I was going to die, because of the lack of air, with my father's nose sunk in his pubic hair and his cock stuck in my gullet. But then I felt a hot jet of hot water go down into my stomach. Other, even more powerful jets followed. Then my dad let go. His cock came out of my throat and my mouth like a huge stick I'd been impaled with. I started coughing and trembling, while other jets of semen came out of his chapel and hit my cheeks, chin, forehead, eyes.
Kneeling, trembling, and with his face smeared, with his right eye, the one who had not been hit by splashes of semen, I saw my father give way to Saro. Another beast was ready to rip my throat out...
I didn't even have time to resume a normal breathing and to let my tonsils rest a little bit, and that big guy grabbed me by the ears and impaled me there on his beast, as if my head was an interlocking object, a case for his superhuman sized cock. As he pulled me by the ears, I could feel him pulling me back, dragging me forward to the center of the room.
I was too busy struggling not to be suffocated to realize what was happening around me. As I desperately tried not to vomit and get some air, I felt something pressing against my asshole. I was terrified. Until I walked into that bathroom, I was a repressed 17-year-old virgin. In a few minutes, after I was thrown down my throat, it was to lose my asshole's virginity too. And given the size of my assailants, my fears were more than justified. How could they think they could penetrate me with those tools? For a quarter of a second, while Saro's python was making its way with unusual violence towards my oesophagus, I thought about trying to escape and asking for help. But to whom? Who would have believed that my father, a retired marshal, a plumber and an electrician, four respectable family fathers, were raping a boy, son of one of them? And then ask who for help? The first one who should have defended me was my father, he himself, who had just deposited a considerable amount of semen in my stomach and now stood there watching me used and humiliated by his friends.
I didn't stand a chance. I had to let go and live through everything that was going to happen. With this thought, while the glans of Sarò was now buried well beyond my tonsils and while I breathed (as much as I could) in the forest of his pubic hair, I let my ass relax, avoiding to contract it and escape the inevitable in vain.
"What an ass! I'm going to kick this one right in the ass." That was Mr. Arturo's voice, I recognized him. "Fuck him! I'll fuck my son first. Get in line, you cuckold." Ota I know, it may seem absurd and grotesque, but in the marasmus of what was happening, while Saro, who by now had reached the total depth and maximum opening of my throat and my lips around that venous stick and had taken to plunging me as if seized by the devil, hearing my father speak like that, even hearing him claim a right of pre-emption against me, as his son, for an instant gave me back a certain transport towards him. Whether it was my ass or my throat, it was undeniable that for once in his life he was interested in something of mine... Well, just when I was reflecting on this tender rediscovery of a father and son relationship, a stabbing pain went through my asshole up to my brain. I wanted to die. In one fell swoop, what was supposed to be my father's dick, without any foreplay or forethought, had entered my virgin asshole. The thrust was so great that it managed to make me swallow even deeper Saro's dick, already dangerously deep in my esophagus. I was practically impaled, between my throat and my ass, by two cocks greedy of my body, determined to make their way into my bowels, as if they had to meet again halfway. After the first flicks in my ass, a strange sensation came over my head, a sort of unconditional surrender to the virile supremacy, to the domination of those big boys, who claimed control over me, over my body, to satisfy their lowest instincts. As soon as my ass surrendered, an infinite pleasure sprang from the anus up my back to the tips of my hair. I was being reborn, vibrating under the blows of a double hammering assault, and became something else to me. I could hear them panting, insulting me, smelling their sweat, their moods, and then all the noises of their bodies banging, rubbing, my throat gurgling like a sink about to close in. Someone took my hands, right and left, to make them grab something, two hard, stocky, warm and gnarled clubs. It didn't take long to understand that, while I was impaled in front and behind by Saro and my father respectively, Arturo and Beppe were rightly claiming a minimum satisfaction of their desires. And so it was that I took to sawing off those other two big boys, while I was enjoying the coordinated attack on my mouth and ass.
When Sarò accelerated his pace, I knew we were almost there. And his fury also conditioned my father, who also began to attack me from behind faster and deeper. The two of them grunted like two animals, encouraged by their other two friends, who, in turn, solicited by my hands and spectators of that double rape, were about to come, I could feel it from the swollen veins running around their very hard cocks.
It was a spectacular crescendo. My father was the first to come, kicking out a sort of howl, and throwing it in with a rush that almost pierced my respiratory system by Saro, who also began to come at that moment. In a few seconds I had the sensation of drowning in the semen. My throat swallowed so much of it, that in part it came back up and started to come out from the sides of my mouth, and then it stained down my chin and then down my chest. But so did it invade me from behind, like a heat that was pounding its way into my bowels. And just as I was accommodating these foreign liquids in my body, two more hot jets hit me from right and left along my hips and back. Arturo and Beppe had also come.
Saro pulled his dick out of my throat and squeezed it right out over my face, still smeared with my father's sperm. When the latter also pulled his dick out of my ass, exhausted, I slipped on the floor and started coughing and burping, in the strenuous effort to accommodate all that semen in my stomach, while it also dripped from my ass and smeared my hips, back and face. I was thrown there unarmed, with my eyes closed, when I felt something hot running over my face. I opened my eyes. It was Saro. In fact, he had come to the bathroom to take a piss. His powerful jet watered all over my face, and then came down to my chest and belly. At that point, the other three, not to be outdone, began to use their semi-fat cocks to "cleanse" me of their seminal fluids.
When they were done, I had to be dressed like the worst porn starlet after a hard scene in a third category sex tape. The four pigs, now full, with their hairy, relaxed bodies, stretched out their arms and came out of the bathroom one by one, without even looking at me. My father, coming out last, before closing the door, said to me in a neutral voice, "Clean up everything, that tomorrow morning, when your mother comes back, she must not find a drop of this filth.
As soon as I got my high school diploma, as planned, I left the village. There was nothing for me there: work, university, prospects. Nothing. Like other people my age, I moved to the North. And I started a new life. But before that happened, from that summer night on, there were other occasions, other evenings in which my father and his friends (a friend of his who was a bus driver, an unemployed man who did odd jobs, and a mechanic colleague of his) needed to vent their dirtiest desires, those that their wives were not willing to satisfy. As soon as the opportunity presented itself (the absent wives, a free house) an evening of poker and alcohol was organized, and for the rest I was there.
The last night of my life in the village, I still remember - it was summer - I had fallen asleep naked and I had moved the sheets away because of the heat. I was immersed in my dreams, until I heard something rubbing against my face. When I opened my eyes, with the soft blue light of the TV that I had left on without volume, I saw my father's hard cock, standing naked on the side of my bed. Instinctively I took it in my mouth and started sucking it and swallowing it, as if I couldn't help it, as if I was swallowing a drug. I could hear him moaning and vibrating with pleasure. And I was enjoying it with him. He'd never come looking for me on his own before. It had only ever happened that I served him and the other dads in the village on the side of their goliardic evenings. But that pump to him alone, in the blue glare of the TV in my room, with my mother sleeping in a room not far away, had a different taste, it was a profoundly different intimacy, a complicity never experienced before. I grabbed his buttocks and pushed his cock down my throat. He held my head, but without pushing, I did everything myself. Then suddenly he stopped me. I feared that he had reconsidered, that he regretted having shown his lonely desire for once, without the goliardic shoulder of his friends. "Turn around," he said. And I knew it was going to be a long night. He fucked me for a long time, in different positions, and then he pumped him again, as if he never wanted to stop. He came out of my room at first light. You could hear the rooster crowing from our neighbor's ground.
Before leaving, he looked at me, said nothing, stood there for a few moments on the doorway, and then closed the door. In the morning I couldn't find him. My mother, while making coffee, told me that he had gone to one of his suppliers in Palermo. Then she added "But he told me to say hello, and to give you this". My mother handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it. Inside there was a pile of bills, enough to be able to leave and look for a job calmly, without dying of hunger and to pay me a roof for at least a whole year. "In the end he's a good man too," my mother said, as she finished her coffee...
I didn't consider myself a "beautiful", one of those that were in magazines or on TV, but not even one to be thrown away: regular features, green eyes (like my mother) and brown hair, which I always preferred to keep very short. I never could stand the heat and - where I was born - summer lasts many months of the year, and it's particularly sultry.
Ever since I was a little boy I have always kept my attraction for men well hidden. In the small town where I lived, in the Sicilian hinterland, being gay was still a taboo, a source of ridicule at school and shame for the families of declared homosexuals.
When I began to understand in which direction my sexual desires were going, in reaction I tried to imitate the most "male" in the country, soon learning to smoke, to run around everywhere on a motorbike with reckless manoeuvres in spite of any prohibition, to play football and to keep well hidden any attitude that could betray heterosexual appearances. In other words, I learned to play a role. I told myself that when I was 18 I would leave the village to start my life, the real one, elsewhere.
My best friend's father, Enrico, was perhaps the first man to arouse my sexual curiosity. Tall, dark brown, hedgehog, bearded, muscular and very hairy, he stood in front of the TV watching football games while Enrico and I played in the yard. I remember that my eyes always ended up falling on the huge package that Mr. Salvatore kept in a nice pose a few meters from us (the living room overlooked the courtyard and with the sliding doors formed almost a single room), plunged on his deckchair a few meters from us, very hairy thighs well spread out, and the tank top that barely hid that hairy torso, slightly overweight, tanned and sweaty. I remember very well the shock I had one afternoon. My friend Enrico had gone to pick up I don't know what game in his room. I stayed in the yard and kicked the ball. Mr. Salvatore had his eyes closed and snored loudly, his mouth wide open. He'd eaten and drank a lot, obviously. That day it was particularly hot and, before sitting in his deckchair, he had taken off his tank top and left it on one of the armrests.
I admired in a sort of abduction her nipples surrounded by black hair, the mass of hair going down to her navel, her belly rising rhythmically with her breath, and the hair going down to her white boxer shorts. It was at that moment that my heartbeats suddenly accelerated. The front slit of the boxer shorts was open. A thick mass of black, frizzy hair came out as if seeking breath on a sultry day. For a moment I was frozen. Then, almost like an automaton, I slowly took a few steps forward, silent and shrewd as a cat. When I arrived at a short distance from that vision that was revealing my definitive and authentic identity, I could see that beyond the skein of hair I could glimpse the base of a wide, dark and full of veins dick. The slit revealed just a few inches of it, but it was enough to send my blood to my brain and mark me for life. Now I had no more doubts. From that moment on, I knew who I was and what I wanted. Henry returned to the courtyard and I was just in time to look away and pretend to look for the ball.
A few months later, Enrico and his family would move away. Mr. Salvatore remained in my memories the highest expression of masculinity and of my desires.
While waiting to reach maturity and escape from the village, I continued to pretend and try to mimic the group of heterosexual boys that I frequented. By now I had learned more or less everything. But the hardest thing was to hide my desires. In particular, the village dads were a real diabolical temptation. I saw them walking in the village or visiting my parents' house, with their prominent bellies, hairy arms, mustaches, beards, calloused hands, feet sticking out of sandals or clogs in the middle of summer. I longed for them like water in the desert.
But, precisely because of my plan to move, I kept my desires well hidden and tried to think about something else, concentrating on sport and study. I never thought that one summer evening, the summer of my seventeenth birthday, I would experience my sexual initiation in the most filthy and sublime way I could have ever imagined, fulfilling my fantasies, indeed overcoming them.
It all happened because of a dad who, not surprisingly, until now I have not mentioned him. My father.
My father was a very closed man, of few words, distant and severe. He was almost always busy in his workshop. And when he wasn't there, he used to play cards with his friends at the village bar, or go fishing or hunting. I've never seen him take the slightest interest in me. I always thought that my marriage to my mother was the result of a one-night stand where I was conceived. The fact is, I've never seen a gesture of love or sweetness between my mother and father. One night I heard them arguing. My mother reproached my father for having another woman, a hairdresser from a village next to ours. In fact, it was a rumor that had been going around for a long time. My father didn't even try to deny it. He told her that men have needs and demands and that she didn't even look at him anymore.
After that night, I began to look at him. My father was shorter than Mr. Salvatore, and had a more prominent belly. And yet he was not fat, he was more robust, stocky, with well-proportioned, muscular arms, shoulders and legs, which counterbalanced the protruding belly. In terms of hair, he had nothing to envy of Enrico's father. But unlike the latter, he also had hair over his shoulders and on his back. In short, he was a handsome male, with a beard, mustache, thick eyelashes and a beautiful bald spot that made him definitely sexy. I'd always ignored him, just like he ignored me. But that nighttime argument between him and my mother, about sex and betrayal, had suddenly revealed him to me as a man, as a boy. That night he had just turned 17, it was February. And from that moment on, until the summer, it was a crescendo of situations and pretexts to admire him and discover him in all his virile beauty. What's more, unlike Mr. Salvatore, my father had him under my eyes, for what little he was at home, and there was no lack of occasions and pretexts.
Up to that moment I had never seen him naked. So I tried to make up for it. I gave it my first try one night. My father had just come home from work, tired and pissed off. I saw him go into the bathroom, definitely planning on taking a shower. Shortly after I saw him enter the bathroom, taking advantage of my mother's absence, busy helping a neighbor, I started spying on him through the door lock. Unfortunately, I could see little or nothing. I could catch a glimpse as he pulled down his trousers from behind and put them on the stool, and then approached the toilet. He was pissing. I had a very powerful and immediate erection. He had turned his back, I could see nothing but the back of his hairy thighs and hear the sound of the powerful jet of urine in the toilet flush. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken off his underpants. I could only guess at his big hairy buttocks hidden by the white panties. Then he moved and out of my sight. I was willing to stand there for hours, waiting for him, naked, coming out of the shower cubicle, maybe he would pass within my sight. But all I could hear was the roar of the water. Soon my mother returned home and I was reluctantly forced to leave my post.
The second chance came several weeks later. This time it was me using the shower. I'd returned from a day at the beach with the village party. I was hot and sweaty and needed a shower to wash away the salt and sand from head to toe. While I was there enjoying the jet of water along my body, I heard noises behind me. I turn around and from the glass in the walk-in closet I see a silhouette standing opposite the toilet. I open the door slightly and see my father on the side, wearing shorts, taking a piss. My heart stops, just as it did when I saw the hair and the base of Mr. Salvatore's cock.
My eyes went straight to the object of my desire. I was just in time to catch a glimpse of something dark and wide, his foreskin, from which the jet of piss came out, that my father's voice distracted me from that vision "I was shitting my pants, you've been in there for an hour". Then he looked at me a little puzzled, redirecting his gaze back to where my eyes had been a moment before he spoke. I had the impression that he was hinting at a grimace of reproach, but perhaps it was I myself who was reproaching myself for my excessive brazenness. The fact is that he shrugged it off (but I could only sense it from the movement of his arms, because at that point I was looking him straight in the eyes), pulled up his shorts and came out.
It goes without saying that I jerked off the most intense saw of my life under the roar of water, trying to revitalize that wide, dark foreskin and that powerful jet of piss.
I had to wait at least a month, it was almost Easter, for a new opportunity to present itself. I was busy repairing my moped in the garage, when I heard my father arrive with one of his friends from the village, Mr. Arturo, another short and stocky fifty year old who was called the "Turk," because of the Turkish moustache he used to wear, and because of his particularly dark complexion. My father, so I heard him say, wanted his friend, who was the town plumber, to take a look at the small bathroom we had in the garage. For some time it tended to get blocked up and the water stagnated, causing a bad smell. There and then I left them to their speeches and I kept on fiddling with the engine of my moped. At a certain point I heard them laughing and saying something that caught my attention. "Of course, you have to fill it up and see if the exhaust works or not", said Mr. Arturo. "Either I go fill a bucket of water and we throw it in, or we use it," my father replied. At which point Mr. Arturo, lowering his zipper, "I've been drinking since this morning and I haven't flushed yet," and pulled out a cucumber not particularly long but stumpy as a torch, venous and swollen, as if it were a joke, with a nice long, rippled foreskin. "if you don't mind, I'll save you a bucket of water." And he started pissing in that old, clogged, smelly toilet. I was petrified, pounding my guts out. It was the first fucking adult male (and what a male!) I could see a few yards away and no obstacles to the show. My father started laughing and said "Of course, with the two beers drunk in the village I think I'll take advantage of it too, since we have to try the drain". And at that point I was ready to faint. Not only was I admiring a big, hairy, dark and knotty prick, belonging to one of the stallions of the village, the "Turkish". But the dick that I had been dreaming about for months was about to reveal itself to my eyes, a few steps away from me, and I had done nothing to guarantee this show. While Mr. Arturo pissed profusely and sighed for the pleasure of releasing his bladder, my father lowered his shorts and lowered his panties. A mountain of black, frizzy, thick skin surrounded a trunk that left me breathless. I had now reset my salivation to zero. My father's trunk was as wide as Mr. Arturo's, but also longer and with a larger and darker chapel, which was revealed in all its splendor as soon as my father pulled up the abundant skin of his foreskin, also dark. Along the whole cock ran big, purplish veins. It was the most horny and intense spectacle I'd ever seen. While I was staring at that wonder of nature, my father's jet of piss began to cross with that of Mr. Arturo, which had not diminished even a little in intensity and volume.
My father also sighed for the feeling of liberation. I stood there, in admiration of those two males who fully responded to all my most hidden erotic fantasies. The fact that one of those two boys was my father made the situation even more erotic. The toilet had to be filled with the piss of these two steers, because the two jets took a long time to run out and become extinct. Both of them were squirting each other's hydrants almost in unison. Mr. Arturo was the first to put the beast back in his pants, followed by my father in his blue Bermuda shorts. Then Mr. Arturo tried to flush the toilet. Water came out of the drain, but instead of flushing it down the sewer, it filled the toilet completely and came out, taking with it the hectoliters of piss my father and the plumber had just deposited.
"Shit!" my dad exclaimed. The two of them barely had time to move so as not to get their shoes wet. The water quickly formed a puddle around the toilet. Only then did my father seem to realize my presence (in fact he always ignored me). "Pietro, go get the rag and clean, while Mr. Arturo and I go get the tools". The two of them climbed onto my father's bus and quickly headed for the plumber's workshop. Before going to get the rag and clean, in a state of erection and total loss of any inhibitory brake, I took advantage of the empty house and there, in the silence of the garage, left alone, I pulled down my shorts and underwear and shot the second best saw of my life in front of that lake. I was on top of the world.
By then my life had become like a drug addict's life. I was living for a dose, a dose of vision of that trunk I'd been lucky enough to see in all its glory. But it certainly wasn't enough for me. I also wanted to touch it, smell it, taste it, kiss it and feel it grow in my mouth, until it took my breath away, making me fuck my throat, as I had heard from the stories of my friends in the village, when they boasted about the shit they did with hookers or girlfriends. I also had the pleasure of a double vision, that of my father and Mr. Arturo. In the saws I did from that day on, I dreamed of kneeling under those two steers and taking their piss in my face and all over my body, before being fucked in the mouth and in the ass by both of them.
I imagined a thousand variations. And I couldn't stop dreaming. Meanwhile, the reality was always the same. My father was shy, absent, distant, with the usual attitude of indifference mixed with intolerance towards me and my mother. But my mind was now lost. The resentment had given way to desire and lust. I longed for that male, or rather, those two boys, as if one was not my father and the other a gentleman who had seen me grow up and who was the father of two boys in my group.
But what could I do? As Enrico advised me, the wisest thing was certainly to keep any temptation at bay, to keep on acting and wait for the escape from that damned country, But what could I do? My mind had gone off on a tangent, like that of the junkies. For some time I was able, despite this, to resist, thinking about school and going out with the group. Then came the summer, very hot, and fate took over.
It was a night at the end of July. My mother had gone to her younger sister's village, pregnant with my cousin. I had stayed with mine, who that evening had invited Mr. Arturo, Beppe, the town electrician and father of another boy in my group, and Rosario, called Saro, a retired marshal. Beppe was my father's age, forty-eight years old, he was a little taller than my father and very strong, hair and beard salt and pepper. Also from the camisole and thighs and calves came out a lot of salt and pepper hair. Saro was a big, big beast. Also very hairy, he was characterized by a very ape-like face, almost Neanderthal, with a single thick eyelash that ran without interruption from one temple to another. Saro had a cavernous voice and a laugh that made the glass shake. He was really a beast, but he was also a good man, very respected and esteemed in the village. He was the father of five children, two of whom had emigrated to Germany.
The four of them were busy playing poker on a plastic table in the forecourt of our house, in front of the garage. My mother's absence allowed them to drink beer in industrial quantities, burp, swear, fart and behave like fellow soldiers on leave, without the slightest regard. They were relaxed and visibly bright. I watched them from my bedroom window, which overlooked the garage forecourt. That night I hadn't gone out, because the whole group had left to go to a rock concert in a neighbouring country. I didn't want to go, so I stayed home.
While I was spying on them and listening to them, when I got to I don't know which round of beers, I realized that they were really drunk. My dad was talking about the hairdresser he was fucking at least once a week now. Mr. Arturo was bragging about hitchhiking a Swede near his plumbing workshop. He took her to his campsite, but not before he wildly fucked her in the car. At which point Beppe revealed his passion for a girl from the village, in her early twenties, who was friends with one of his sons. I knew her too, and I considered her a shy and very sweet girl. Beppe told in great detail how the sexting girl loved to get fucked in the throat or in the ass. She was a real slut, according to him, who couldn't do without her dick. But the story that left me open-mouthed was that of the beast, of Signor Saro, the retired marshal, father of five children and already a grandfather at fifty-eight. Apparently, my English teacher, a woman who was in fact pleasant and still well put for her almost fifty years, liked to get pissed on. And even more she liked getting pissed on, possibly by many men. When both my father and the other two began to touch each other's packages, asking more details from Saro, who, for his part, showed - and I could see it even from a distance - from the window of my room - an abnormal erection under the yellow canvas shorts she wore, which with difficulty contained that buoy that was growing as soon as I could see. They were very excited. Saro, while he too was massaging that python he had between his legs, was pressing on with his story, explaining about the group of truck drivers and his former fellow marshals with whom, at least once a month, they organized these evenings with my professor in heat, in abandoned farmhouses or, as he was explaining, also, on the last occasion, in the school bathroom, at night, with the complicity of the janitor, a short and stocky 50-year-old man, who had obviously allowed the use of our boys' bathroom, in exchange for his participation in the crowd.
At that point something happened that changed the course of my life, besides the epilogue of an evening otherwise based on broken free and dirty confessions between four old friends. Saro, completely drunk and totally horny, asked my father where he could go to take a piss. As he asked, he got up, and his beast popped out of the left side of his shorts. It was huge, the biggest dick I'd ever seen, long, stocky and knotty like a tree branch. Tough and menacing, completely run off. Everyone laughed and my dad said, "Well, if you can piss like that..." And then he added to go into the bathroom inside the house, because the one in the garage was unfortunately clogged again.
It was a moment. Almost as, years before, I had moved like an automaton, silently approaching my friend's dad's package, this time too, moved by libido and years of repressed desires and fantasies, I rushed to the bathroom, making sure I got there before Saro, to maybe hide inside the shower and spy on him. It was an absurd idea. The glass door would not protect me. But I was out of my mind, my desire for cock had taken over. So I went into the bathroom and, with the light off, I slipped into the shower cubicle. The next thing I knew, the light was on. He didn't even bother to close the door. He was completely drunk, staggering around, and he was all sweaty. He pulled down his shorts and pulled out this inhuman thing. It was obvious that he could never, ever piss. And in fact, his intentions were quite different. With his left hand he began to caress those two big hairy testicles dangling beneath his trunk, and with the other hand he began to slowly brush himself, closing his eyes.
I was out of my mind. I was practically in front of him, because I had opened the shower door. I had kneeled down and was sawing myself off too, in total adoration of that truncheon a few steps away from me. I didn't even realize that Saro had opened his eyes and was looking at me. I didn't realize it until he stopped sawing himself. He was holding that beast in his hand and holding it steady, straight and hard and pointed in front of him, therefore towards me, like a gun. His eyes went from bewilderment to a grimace of contempt, as if they had seen something inconceivable. He held up that one thick eyebrow that ran over his eyes as if he wanted to punish me with his gaze. But then, almost imperceptibly, he slowly began to massage his cock, continuing to look at me. Then I felt something hit my eyes. I dried myself with one hand. He spit in my face, "You're a fag! And who would have thought that Mimmo's son was a fag, that he likes dick!". And another spit went off, which came straight to my lips. With my tongue I took that saliva and tasted it like a rare nectar. "Fuckin' hell, what a shit." At that point, while masturbating faster and faster, Saro did something I never expected, marking my destiny forever. "Mimmo" I shout with that cavernous voice, "but did you know that you were a faggot?". Silence. I wanted to die. On the other hand, the three stopped laughing and talking. The silence was followed by the golden rumors of the chairs that were moving away and the footsteps that were advancing. I was trapped, kneeling in the walk-in closet in my parents' bathroom, my shorts down and my dick in my hand, with a friend of my father's blocking the road in front of me and with his trunk in a shot a few inches from my face.
Still, I waited for my fate. A few seconds later I saw my father enter, followed by Beppe and Arturo. The four of them looked at each other and then looked at me, kneeling, with his dick in his hand in an evident state of excitement despite the fear and shame. My eyes expressed terror, but my dick expressed anything but terror, in front of those four straight steers, pigs, drunken and drunk. Something must have spoken for me, a voice from my libido in direct contact with theirs. I don't know what this voice said, but something like "I'm not a 17-year-old boy, I'm not a son or a friend of your children. Tonight I'm your bitch." All I know is that after a few moments of silence, which seemed to me to last hours, my father approached me, overtaking Saro and putting himself in front of me.
"I always thought you were a fag. In my opinion, you're not even my son." At that moment I didn't know how to interpret that sentence. If we had been in a novel of formation, these few words would have represented the revealing moment, as in the feulletton of the nineteenth century, where in an instant you can understand why a father's resentment towards his son or presumed one. However, I wasn't in a formation novel, but in front of a forty-eight-year-old man who was, until proven otherwise, my biological father, and who in a few seconds, in front of my eyes, lowered his Bermuda shorts and pulled out a beast that, now that he was fully dressed, equalled Saro's, who in the meantime continued to jerk like a truncheon shaken by a policeman.
It was a matter of a few moments. My father slapped me with his cock, as if it were a whip, and then with his hand he grabbed my chin and forced me to open my mouth. In one fell swoop, I felt that beating beast push its way down past my tonsils, forcing its way down my throat. It tasted like piss, sweat, male. My father put his hands around my head and started fucking me like my mouth was a pussy, like he was fucking the hairdresser he was cheating on my mother with. In the meantime he insulted me, told me I was a slut, a whore, that he was going to break me and make all his friends break me.
My face kept slamming furiously against his hairy pubis, while his balls were slamming against my chin, my lips were widened to the unlikely and my throat was drilled into my esophagus. I wanted to vomit, but his blows were so violent and rapid, that at one point his tonsils had given way, surrendering to the assault and dilating the opening of my throat to the point of welcoming that python. In the meantime the saliva descended copiously to the sides of my mouth, dripping on my father's balls, on his thighs, as well as on my neck and chest. Now I no longer had a mouth, but a pussy planted under my nose.
In that position I couldn't see what the other three were doing. All I know is that they were encouraging my father, inciting him to fuck my throat like I was the worst bitch in the country. At one point my dad pushed my head so far up against his pubis that I actually thought I was going to suffocate to death. I remained motionless, convinced that I was going to die, because of the lack of air, with my father's nose sunk in his pubic hair and his cock stuck in my gullet. But then I felt a hot jet of hot water go down into my stomach. Other, even more powerful jets followed. Then my dad let go. His cock came out of my throat and my mouth like a huge stick I'd been impaled with. I started coughing and trembling, while other jets of semen came out of his chapel and hit my cheeks, chin, forehead, eyes.
Kneeling, trembling, and with his face smeared, with his right eye, the one who had not been hit by splashes of semen, I saw my father give way to Saro. Another beast was ready to rip my throat out...
I didn't even have time to resume a normal breathing and to let my tonsils rest a little bit, and that big guy grabbed me by the ears and impaled me there on his beast, as if my head was an interlocking object, a case for his superhuman sized cock. As he pulled me by the ears, I could feel him pulling me back, dragging me forward to the center of the room.
I was too busy struggling not to be suffocated to realize what was happening around me. As I desperately tried not to vomit and get some air, I felt something pressing against my asshole. I was terrified. Until I walked into that bathroom, I was a repressed 17-year-old virgin. In a few minutes, after I was thrown down my throat, it was to lose my asshole's virginity too. And given the size of my assailants, my fears were more than justified. How could they think they could penetrate me with those tools? For a quarter of a second, while Saro's python was making its way with unusual violence towards my oesophagus, I thought about trying to escape and asking for help. But to whom? Who would have believed that my father, a retired marshal, a plumber and an electrician, four respectable family fathers, were raping a boy, son of one of them? And then ask who for help? The first one who should have defended me was my father, he himself, who had just deposited a considerable amount of semen in my stomach and now stood there watching me used and humiliated by his friends.
I didn't stand a chance. I had to let go and live through everything that was going to happen. With this thought, while the glans of Sarò was now buried well beyond my tonsils and while I breathed (as much as I could) in the forest of his pubic hair, I let my ass relax, avoiding to contract it and escape the inevitable in vain.
"What an ass! I'm going to kick this one right in the ass." That was Mr. Arturo's voice, I recognized him. "Fuck him! I'll fuck my son first. Get in line, you cuckold." Ota I know, it may seem absurd and grotesque, but in the marasmus of what was happening, while Saro, who by now had reached the total depth and maximum opening of my throat and my lips around that venous stick and had taken to plunging me as if seized by the devil, hearing my father speak like that, even hearing him claim a right of pre-emption against me, as his son, for an instant gave me back a certain transport towards him. Whether it was my ass or my throat, it was undeniable that for once in his life he was interested in something of mine... Well, just when I was reflecting on this tender rediscovery of a father and son relationship, a stabbing pain went through my asshole up to my brain. I wanted to die. In one fell swoop, what was supposed to be my father's dick, without any foreplay or forethought, had entered my virgin asshole. The thrust was so great that it managed to make me swallow even deeper Saro's dick, already dangerously deep in my esophagus. I was practically impaled, between my throat and my ass, by two cocks greedy of my body, determined to make their way into my bowels, as if they had to meet again halfway. After the first flicks in my ass, a strange sensation came over my head, a sort of unconditional surrender to the virile supremacy, to the domination of those big boys, who claimed control over me, over my body, to satisfy their lowest instincts. As soon as my ass surrendered, an infinite pleasure sprang from the anus up my back to the tips of my hair. I was being reborn, vibrating under the blows of a double hammering assault, and became something else to me. I could hear them panting, insulting me, smelling their sweat, their moods, and then all the noises of their bodies banging, rubbing, my throat gurgling like a sink about to close in. Someone took my hands, right and left, to make them grab something, two hard, stocky, warm and gnarled clubs. It didn't take long to understand that, while I was impaled in front and behind by Saro and my father respectively, Arturo and Beppe were rightly claiming a minimum satisfaction of their desires. And so it was that I took to sawing off those other two big boys, while I was enjoying the coordinated attack on my mouth and ass.
When Sarò accelerated his pace, I knew we were almost there. And his fury also conditioned my father, who also began to attack me from behind faster and deeper. The two of them grunted like two animals, encouraged by their other two friends, who, in turn, solicited by my hands and spectators of that double rape, were about to come, I could feel it from the swollen veins running around their very hard cocks.
It was a spectacular crescendo. My father was the first to come, kicking out a sort of howl, and throwing it in with a rush that almost pierced my respiratory system by Saro, who also began to come at that moment. In a few seconds I had the sensation of drowning in the semen. My throat swallowed so much of it, that in part it came back up and started to come out from the sides of my mouth, and then it stained down my chin and then down my chest. But so did it invade me from behind, like a heat that was pounding its way into my bowels. And just as I was accommodating these foreign liquids in my body, two more hot jets hit me from right and left along my hips and back. Arturo and Beppe had also come.
Saro pulled his dick out of my throat and squeezed it right out over my face, still smeared with my father's sperm. When the latter also pulled his dick out of my ass, exhausted, I slipped on the floor and started coughing and burping, in the strenuous effort to accommodate all that semen in my stomach, while it also dripped from my ass and smeared my hips, back and face. I was thrown there unarmed, with my eyes closed, when I felt something hot running over my face. I opened my eyes. It was Saro. In fact, he had come to the bathroom to take a piss. His powerful jet watered all over my face, and then came down to my chest and belly. At that point, the other three, not to be outdone, began to use their semi-fat cocks to "cleanse" me of their seminal fluids.
When they were done, I had to be dressed like the worst porn starlet after a hard scene in a third category sex tape. The four pigs, now full, with their hairy, relaxed bodies, stretched out their arms and came out of the bathroom one by one, without even looking at me. My father, coming out last, before closing the door, said to me in a neutral voice, "Clean up everything, that tomorrow morning, when your mother comes back, she must not find a drop of this filth.
As soon as I got my high school diploma, as planned, I left the village. There was nothing for me there: work, university, prospects. Nothing. Like other people my age, I moved to the North. And I started a new life. But before that happened, from that summer night on, there were other occasions, other evenings in which my father and his friends (a friend of his who was a bus driver, an unemployed man who did odd jobs, and a mechanic colleague of his) needed to vent their dirtiest desires, those that their wives were not willing to satisfy. As soon as the opportunity presented itself (the absent wives, a free house) an evening of poker and alcohol was organized, and for the rest I was there.
The last night of my life in the village, I still remember - it was summer - I had fallen asleep naked and I had moved the sheets away because of the heat. I was immersed in my dreams, until I heard something rubbing against my face. When I opened my eyes, with the soft blue light of the TV that I had left on without volume, I saw my father's hard cock, standing naked on the side of my bed. Instinctively I took it in my mouth and started sucking it and swallowing it, as if I couldn't help it, as if I was swallowing a drug. I could hear him moaning and vibrating with pleasure. And I was enjoying it with him. He'd never come looking for me on his own before. It had only ever happened that I served him and the other dads in the village on the side of their goliardic evenings. But that pump to him alone, in the blue glare of the TV in my room, with my mother sleeping in a room not far away, had a different taste, it was a profoundly different intimacy, a complicity never experienced before. I grabbed his buttocks and pushed his cock down my throat. He held my head, but without pushing, I did everything myself. Then suddenly he stopped me. I feared that he had reconsidered, that he regretted having shown his lonely desire for once, without the goliardic shoulder of his friends. "Turn around," he said. And I knew it was going to be a long night. He fucked me for a long time, in different positions, and then he pumped him again, as if he never wanted to stop. He came out of my room at first light. You could hear the rooster crowing from our neighbor's ground.
Before leaving, he looked at me, said nothing, stood there for a few moments on the doorway, and then closed the door. In the morning I couldn't find him. My mother, while making coffee, told me that he had gone to one of his suppliers in Palermo. Then she added "But he told me to say hello, and to give you this". My mother handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it. Inside there was a pile of bills, enough to be able to leave and look for a job calmly, without dying of hunger and to pay me a roof for at least a whole year. "In the end he's a good man too," my mother said, as she finished her coffee...
