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He hoped Lucien hadn’t decided he wasn’t coming and had left. Paulu had turned the sheep over to his younger brother, Petru’s, care, and that had taken longer than he anticipated. Petru was such a donkey. But then, Paulu supposed he’d been a donkey too when his father had trained him to the shepherding. It wasn’t as easy a task as many thought—certainly not those fishermen down in Calvi who made fun of him in the harbor-front taverns. If Lucien hadn’t been there that one night . . .
Paulu stopped and looked up the northern slope of Monte Cinto, Corsica’s tallest mountain, for signs of the soldier. His eyes could pick out the stone Genoese tower, built, like so many others on the island, centuries ago by the Italians to provide warning of the raids of the Barbary pirates. He couldn’t pick out the flat clearing where the Roman temple had stood, though. That’s where he was to meet Lucien. He had received word that Lucien had leave from the army and wanted to meet Paulu there. They had not had time and opportunity to complete their pledge of love before Lucien had gone to the army, and Paulu ached to be in his older lover’s arms again and to be transported to the paradise that Lucien said awaited them.
It was a steep climb to the tower, but it gave Paulu time to revel in his arousal at being able to meet with Lucien in private at last—if Lucien hadn’t failed to wait for him. Paulu and Lucien came from the same village at the base of Monte Cinto, between the mountain and the northern coastal town of Calvi. Lucien was two years older than Paulu, who had only recently reached his majority and who hoped he would, like Lucien, be able to leave his village and work in greater freedom, away from his home villager’s accusing eyes, for the type of life he wanted to lead. He wasn’t interested in the army, as Lucien was, though. Lucien was the macho one; Paulu was more sensitive, more musically inclined. His hope was to go south, to the capital city of Ajaccio, and to work as a waiter in a café where he also could sing and play his lute.
Lucien had taken a special interest in Paulu and had taken him aside when the opportunity arose and embraced him and spoken to him of love and of them being together, away from the village, one day. And they had even kissed. One afternoon on the lower slopes of Monte Cinto, where Paulu was watching the sheep, Lucien had appeared and they had gone beyond kissing. They had held and stroked each other’s cocks, and Lucien had kissed Paulu’s cock and caused him to come. Only having heard the whistling of Paulu’s younger brother, coming up the hill to take a watch with the sheep, had prevented them from going further.
Then a couple of evenings before Lucien was to go off to the army, they had stolen away to Calvi to be together “at last.” Lucien had booked a room in an inn and Paulu had declared his willingness to spend the night with him—under him—not caring at that moment what he would tell his father about where he had been. But they had gone to the waterfront café, and there were only men there. And the men had taken an interest in Paulu, who was small of stature but perfectly formed and with the visage of an angel. They had been drunk and Lucien had had to fight them off with his knife. He wasn’t nearly as drunk as they were and he was a big-boned, strapping young man, who was good with his knife. The two of them had escaped the café, but Lucien had been cut, and the time he planned to be fucking Paulu in the room he’d rented was spent in a clinic instead.
The incident had put Lucien out of sorts. Even though Paulu wanted to lie under him, Lucien wasn’t in the mood. He was preparing to go into the army. And there was an older, more experienced young man than Paulu who Lucien had taken an interest in by then.
Once recruited and shipped off there had been months of basic training for Lucien in the army barracks outside Ajaccio. But then he had gotten word to Paulu that he must see him and would be at the Genoese tower on the Northern slope of Monte Cinto on a specified date and time. His message was that he wanted to see Paulu. Paulu had no illusions about what Lucien wanted, even though the message could not reveal that. Lucien wanted to be inside him, but it was what Paulu wanted too. He knew what his preferences were. He wanted to be initiated in what men did with men before he went down to the capital city when his younger brother took over the responsibility for the sheep, which would be soon now. Paulu didn’t want to be seen as a country bumpkin when he got to the capital.
And Paulu wanted it to be Lucien. He had wanted it to be Lucien for years.
Paulu reached the tower without seeing evidence of Lucien. The area in front of the tower was level, with an ancient circular platform made of flat stone slabs. In the center of the circle was an altar. Centuries before the tower had been built here this had been the clearing for a Roman temple, and probably centuries before that it had been the center of pagan worship. There was no telling how old, and how many religions the smooth-stoned altar table had served. Maybe even various forms of fertility rites. Paulu approached this altar and stood behind it, looking down onto the island’s northern coast and the town of Calvi and mourning being here alone.
And then he wasn’t alone. Lucien, a giant of a young man when placed against Paulu, had appeared from nowhere and encircled the smaller, younger men in his beefy arms from behind. Basic training had been good for Lucien’s body. He was hard muscled, trim, and cut.
“Lucien,” was all Paulu had opportunity to say in surprise as he turned his head and Lucien hungrily took possession of his mouth. Lucien’s hands glided all over Paulu’s trembling body. He pulled Paulu’s sheepskin tunic over his head and laid it on the altar. Paulu’s trousers were pulled down off his legs.
“Lucien. Maybe we should—” Paulu started to say as they came out of the kiss. He was shuddering. He was aroused and moaning under Lucien’s frantic intimate attentions, but he had expected something different than this. More buildup and preparation. Conversation beforehand about what each had done in the intervening months, some cuddling and stroking perhaps. But Lucien seemed almost a mad man.
“I’ve waited too long for this,” Lucien growled. “I must be inside you or I’ll come just thinking of how much I’ve wanted you.”
“Lucien!” Paulu cried out again, but the hulking soldier already was lifting him, placing him on his knees on top of the sheepskin on the Roman altar, and pressing his cheek down on the cold stone with a grip on the back of his neck with one beefy hand and pinning one of Paulu’s arms behind his back with the other hand.
Paulu whimpered while Lucien attacked his cock, balls, and asshole with his tongue and teeth. Paulu cried out and strained against the restraining hands as Lucien worked his hard cock into the channel. And Paulu moaned and groaned as Lucien rode his ass to an ejaculation.
Paulu thought it would stop then—or at least pause so that he could hear Lucien speak to him again about how beautiful he was and how they would be together one day—but no sooner had Lucien withdrawn his cock after coming than he was inside Paulu’s channel again with a cock as hard and as needy as before.
It almost seemed like an entirely different cock. And when Paulu was revolved on the cock and turned to his back on the altar, he realized to his surprise and horror that it was an entirely different cock. Another man, another soldier, his trousers off but his fatigues tunic open and hanging on his shoulders, was standing between his thighs and fucking him. He was flanked by two other soldiers, all strangers to Paulu, who each held one of Paulu’s legs up and out—and who were grinning as they watched Paulu being fucked. It wasn’t long before Paulu realized that they were just waiting their turn.
Lucien had come around to where Paulu’s head lolled over the other side of the altar when he wasn’t lifting it up. Lucien knelt, holding Paulu’s head in his hands, and whispered encouragement and endearments in his ear. Now, having gotten his rocks off, Lucien was willing and able to court Paulu, to tell him how beautiful his body was, and how it should be shared. And how well he was doing, and how much Lucien appreciated Paulu doing this for him and his army buddies.
Before Paulu could voice his own response to this, Lucien had stood and pushed his cock between Paulu’s lips. He clasped Paulu’s hands in his and held him stretched out on the altar, entertaining the cocks of his buddies at one end and of his own cock in Paulu’s throat. The four soldiers each fucked Paulu twice before they pulled away from him and conversed happily among themselves while they redressed and then disappeared behind the tower from whence they’d appeared.
Lucien followed behind after he’d taken Paulu up in his arms, Paulu still on his back on the altar, and rocked him and told him how good the taking had been for Paulu and how he wanted to visit Paulu regularly like this and how good a time they would have. Paulu lay there, whimpering and moaning, nodding his head for Lucien and accepting the kisses and the homage Lucien belatedly was bestowing on him. Paulu had no idea what to think or say or do. He’d wanted to cross this line and he’d wanted to be with Lucien. He’d have to think about this. He didn’t really know how to react to what had happened to him.
Was this normal with the ways of men with men? How was he to know what should be expected of him in this world?
He did love it when Lucien was cocking him. He did love Lucien. He would like Lucien to take more time and to be more affectionate, but that came with time, he was sure. Didn’t it? It was just because of the need and frustration Lucien had built up. And he’d said he wouldn’t have been able to get away to meet Paulu if he hadn’t brought the other soldiers along. They wouldn’t be there every time. Paulu was sure that Lucien had said that.
* * * *
Paulu was gingerly climbing down from the altar and stretching his stiff limbs when he realized that, once again, he wasn’t alone. This time it wasn’t soldiers though. It was men who looked like gangsters, even though they were in jeans and T-shirts. They also had guns in holsters at their waists or under their armpits. By the time he was aware of them, they were fanning out around him, in an enclosing circle, and they were signaling to each other. Paulu looked from one to the other—there were a half dozen or more of them—and he could see that they were all in a crouch, with their arms held wide, at the ready, looking for where he would try to bolt. And they were all grinning and licking their chops. One of the men slipped a hunting knife from a sheath strapped to his calf and went into a crouch, facing Paulu, and moved the knife from one hand to the other.
Paulu tried to move toward the weakest-looking one, a fairly old, paunchy man. But the two on either side of that man closed ranks, grabbed Paulu as he careened into them, and pushed him off into the middle of the circle. He was propelled far enough across the closing circle to be grabbed by the hands of two men at the other side.
The men were calling to each other in Corsican. One of them was telling the man with the knife he couldn’t play with Paulu until the others had fucked him. They started bidding on who would be the first to fuck him.
The circle closed. One man, strapping and strong, older than most but not an old man, asserted his right to be first, saying he was ready now and the others could ready themselves by watching. His jeans were down around his knees and his erection was curved up when the men now behind Paulu were lifting him up to set him down on the man’s cock.
A shout from the corner of the tower rang out, though, and the men around Paulu fell away. He sank to the stones beside the altar.
“What in the fuck are you men doing?” The voice was deep and commanding.
“We saw him giving it to a group of soldiers,” the man who had been about to fuck Paulu answered in a whining, diffident voice. “He gives it. We were just playing.”
“Well, go play somewhere else. You’ll be needed soon for the transfer.”
Paulu looked up from his crouched position as the men obediently melted away, leaving an older man alone with him in the stone circle around the altar. The man was looking somewhat amused. He wasn’t tall and he was chunky in build, but he looked powerful. He was both distinguished looking, with well-cut salt-and-pepper hair, and an expensive-looking silk sweat suit, and rough looking. His face looked like it had been battered from time to time in street fighting but that he hadn’t gotten the worst of the fights. His nose had been broken—probably more than once—but on him it was a roughness that exuded power, danger, and mystery. When he opened his mouth in a smile, his teeth were perfectly aligned. Another sign that he was wealthy. They had probably set him back more money than Paulu’s family made in a year.
The jacket of his sweats was open, revealing a heavily muscled barrel chest, covered with black, curly hair. A gold medallion on a thick gold chain hung around his neck. He also had heavy rings on his beefy, long-fingered right hand, the biggest of the rings on his middle finger.
He moved slowly over to the altar, picked up Paulu’s sheepskin tunic, and leaned down and handed it to Paulu.
“Put your trousers and this back on and come with me. You look like you need some strong wine.”
Paulu uncoiled, reached over for his trousers at the base of the altar, and rose. He clothed himself, all the time carefully watching the man, who smiled benevolently back at him.
“I am Don Carlo,” the man said while he watched Paulu dress. “Those were my men. I live down near Calvi and we were out for an afternoon on the mountainside. They won’t be bothering you. They have other activities that will keep them busy. Come back with me to where the wine is.”
Paulu followed the man around the side of the Genoese tower and on a slow descent, winding around the western side of Monte Cinto. Then they were ascending again a bit to a glade of trees, where Paulu could see that blankets were spread out on the ground and a young man in shorts and a T-shirt was working over a couple of straw baskets. Down the hill from here were three black, four-wheel-drive vehicles with smoked windows. Two were vans and the other an expensive-looking SUV. These were parked in a field above another line of trees, masking them from view from the road near the base of the mountain.
As they approached where the blankets were laid out, Don Carlo gestured for Paulu to sit on the blankets, called for the young man hovered over the straw baskets to produce wine and two glasses, and then waved the young man away. “Go find something else to do for a couple of hours. Go to the vehicles and help the men when they come.”
Handing Paulu a glass of wine, Don Carlo reclined beside where the young man was sitting cross-legged, trembling a bit, completely out of his element. He had to use both hands to handle the wine glass.
“Don’t be afraid,” Don Carlo murmured in a low voice. “It is very good wine. Drink that up and I’ll refill your glass.”
While Paulu was drinking his second glass, Don Carlo began asking him questions.
“My men said you were with soldiers up there at the tower. Is that true?”
“I wasn’t with the soldiers,” Paulu answered. “I was there waiting for one soldier. He brought the others.”
“And the others assaulted you? Sexually assaulted you? My men said they did that.”
“Yes,” Paulu answered in a small voice. Don Carlo had a hand on his knee.
“Take your tunic off. And tell me what your name is. Don’t worry, I’ve seen you without your tunic on. I just want to make sure they didn’t cut or bruise you.”
“They didn’t. My name . . . my name is Paulu.”
“Let me see for myself. If you are hurt, we should see that you get medical attention. Here, lift your arms.”
Paulu lifted his arms and the tunic came off over his head. Don Carlo ran his hands back down Paulu’s torso once the tunic was tossed aside. Paulu flinched. One hand remained on his thigh.
“There doesn’t seem to be any damage. How about to your legs, though?”
“No, nothing there,” Paulu said in a meek voice.
“Here, your wine glass is empty. Let me refill it. Drink up. When you came to the tower to meet your soldier, what is it you two planned to do? Did the soldiers do anything to you that you hadn’t planned on the one soldier doing with you?”
Paulu didn’t answer. He just hung his head and looked down at the hand, with its two heavy rings, resting on his thigh. He felt a little woozy and seemed to be thinking and moving a little sluggishly.
“You and your soldier were meeting to have sex, weren’t you?” Don Carlo asked. His voice was gentle, completely devoid of judgment.
Paulu looked down the side of the mountain. The men in the jeans with the gun holsters who had accosted him at the tower were down there now, with crates of something. They were loading them into the van.
“Yes,” he answered. “Lucien and I are in love. It was the first meeting we were able to have.”
“So, you went to the tower to have sex, and you did have sex. Maybe more than you thought you would?”
“Don’t feel shame at that. I hear a note of shame in your voice. Sex is healthy for a young man your age. And there’s nothing wrong with sex between men. Why, I enjoy sex with a man too.”
Paulu looked up sharply at that, looking into the steel-gray eyes of the older man. The man exuding power and control.
“It was my first time,” Paulu said plaintively, as if that made any difference here.
“But you enjoyed it?”
“No, not really. It was rough.”
“But you enjoyed it with that one soldier—the one you went to meet—didn’t you?”
“Yes, mostly,” Paulu admitted in a weak voice.
“And you would let him fuck you again?”
“But you would have enjoyed sex with him if he hadn’t been rough, if he’d given you more attention?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Sex doesn’t have to be rough. It is glorious when done well. Perhaps what you needed was an older, more experienced man. Perhaps you need an older man to work with you so that you can enjoy it more the next time with your young soldier. There are things you can do to make him want to give you more attention.”
Paulu looked down the hillside again. The two vans were pulling away. Only the young man who had served the wine was left. He was leaning against the fender of the SUV. Waiting. Paulu had a good idea what he was waiting for, why he wasn’t coming back up the hill yet.
“Take the trousers off now. I need to see if you have any bruises or cuts on your legs.”
With shaking hands Paulu undid the rope belt, stretched his legs out in front of him, pushed the trousers down to his knees, and then shrugged them off his legs altogether. He wasn’t wearing briefs. Don Carlo ran his hands down both thighs and calves. Paulu couldn’t help going hard. Don Carlo put an arm around his shoulders and laid the other hand on Paulu’s thigh, high up.
“You know we are going to have sex now, don’t you? That I’m going to fuck you.”
“Yes,” Paulu answered in a small voice.
“I will be good to you. I will show you how it should be done. Here. Turn your face to mine. I want to taste you.”
As Paulu turned his face to Don Carlo’s for the kiss, the older man encased his cock in a beefy hand and started to slow stroke him. After several minutes, with a stop to cup and roll Paulu’s balls, Don Carlo’s hand descended down Paulu’s perineum, and with the heel of his hand under Paulu’s balls, Don Carlo finger fucked Paulu’s hole, giving his rim the full attention of the large, smooth, rounded stone on the heavy ring of his middle finger.
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