Chapter 6 - Breaking news

The hill country of Tuscany was shimmering in the late morning heat as Angelo slowed down the car, and turned to a dirt road ravaged by potholes. Carefully he manoeuvred the car around the worst depressions, scraping the bottom of the car only a few times as the road climbed the side of a hill adorned with cypresses and gnarled bushes, with some purple and blue flowers struggling to be seen among the tall grass of the underbrush. After this brief patch of wilderness we were soon lifted high enough for a grander view of the legendary Tuscan landscape, and without a doubt there were worse places on Earth to go into hiding. A series of rolling hills extended to all directions, the furthest ones ever deepening shades of blue until they disappeared into the haze, and the sky above held a procession of tall, shimmering white cumulus clouds that cast their play of shadows over the countryside. Fields of various shades of green and ochre blanketed the land, divided by lines of ubiquitous cypresses and dark green bushes, and each farm was surrounded by its own copse of trees to offer shade from the hot glare of the sun. Ahead of us, on top of the hill, stood the crumbling old farmhouse where I was to spend my summer in exile.

The dark brown, two-storey house was shaped like an L, with the longer wing apparently having been a shelter or a barn as there were still visible ruts leading to the large door. All windows of the shorter wing were closed with green shutters that badly needed painting, and the roof – mercifully intact – was laid with classic Italian terracotta tiles. The car came to a halt under a widely branched evergreen tree with an explosion of shiny, waxy leaves, and as soon as I stepped out of the car I was enclosed in their faint but pleasant smell, mixed with the weaker and more unreliable wisps of scent from wild rose bushes that had conquered the southern wall of the house. Crickets were singing loudly everywhere, and from a distance I could hear the low bark of a shepherd dog. A pale yellow butterfly fluttered by, seemingly attracted by the roses, but it was carried away by a gentle gust of the warm breeze. I stood still in the shadow of the old tree, overcome by the immediate sense of restful well-being and that mysterious spell of Tuscany which, somehow, always went beyond the dazzling beauty of the place.

A few mouldy terracotta vases, some of them broken, were heaped next to the barn door, and after rummaging among them for a few seconds Angelo stood up with a triumphant smile.

“We don´t have to break in,” he said, dangling a set of keys that looked as old as the building itself.

“That´s not a very original hiding place,” I replied, disapprovingly.

Angelo shrugged, and slipped the key into the lock. “It´s the countryside, and there´s nothing worth stealing in the house anyway.”

“That´s what I was afraid of.”

He looked up. “Don´t you like this place?”

“I do,” I said honestly. “It looks great.”

The floor plan was rather puzzling, and a little unnerving as well, I discovered. We entered a small, dark room with a fireplace, and in a corner there was a doorway – without a door – that lead into a black and seemingly fathomless space. It was the barn, and as I peeked in I saw large, peculiar shapes of rusty farm tools where a little light was cast from the doorway, leaving the rest of the space in complete darkness. I looked for a light switch, but there was none, and I wasn´t sure I liked the idea of not having a locked door between my bedroom and this creepy part of the house once the night fell and I was here on my own. Even the room with the fireplace had only a tiny deep-set window, half covered with old cobwebs, and my unease increased. The shadowy kitchen was the only other room on the ground floor but it was reasonably modern, dating back to 1950s, and the worn-out fixtures held a certain charm. The overgrown roses covered the window, letting in greenish, dappled light, and the room was pleasantly cool after the heat outside. I tried the tap, and after fifteen seconds the initially brackish water turned clear. In the meanwhile Angelo had turned on the ancient fridge, and it came alive with sputtering noises that settled into a high-pitched wheeze.

“Let´s have a look at the upstairs before bringing in the groceries,” he said.

The stairs were narrow and worn, but the white-washed bathroom, above the kitchen, was a pleasant surprise. It had been recently renovated, and boasted an actual glass-walled shower booth along with all other modern necessities, most of which were fitted into bamboo furnishings. The view from the window was magnificent, albeit obstructed with the usual spiderwebs. It was warmer up here, with the the sun-beaten roof and rafters visible above us, but the room was tall and the air had the pleasurable smell of dry wood. The corridor, with ancient terracotta flooring, lead to two large bedrooms, one of which was in shambles, but the other one was in fairly good shape with the white-washed walls and raftered ceiling. The furniture consisted of a king-size bed, a simple nightstand, and a badly scratched but pictoresque cupboard that seemed to predate the house itself. The floor was made of uneven slabs of grey stone, and the only illumination came from a bare light bulb hanging from a frayed wire that looked as if it would burst in flames as soon as someone threw the switch. I loved the place.

“I thought Carlo had done something to this house,” Angelo said, aghast. “It was like this when I first saw it two years ago.”

“I like it.”

“There was a TV set in the kitchen, did you notice?”

It had been a portable black and white 14-inch model, a throwback to the early days of television, and I had no doubt it was going to bring me bad news very soon. I stepped to the window, almost tripping as my foot hit one of the uneven stone slabs, and wrangled the window open. The green shutters made a hideous creaking noise as I forced them open, revealing the celebrated view. The warm breeze, and the singing of crickets invaded the room. Alarmed by the sudden sunlight, a spider with long spindly legs scampered into safety under the bed.

“I bought some insect repellant,” Angelo announced, pleased with himself. “Let´s go and get the groceries.”

We carried the bags into the kitchen, and set them on a sturdy peasant table that an antique dealer would die for. I fiddled with the TV set, to see if it was working, and after hesitating for a minute the screen lit up and the picture settled into a more or less normal shape. The news was on, and the camera was zooming on a bloodstained pavement in the outskirts of some southern town. The frenzy about Gabriele´s death hadn´t started yet.

“I really have to get going,” Angelo said apologetically, wrapping his big arms around me from behind and almost crushing my ribcage. “It´s later than I thought, and Luca will be frantic. I´ll be back as soon as I can, with more food and some extras.”

Then he was gone, and after the sound of the BMW had vanished I stood in the middle of the kitchen, stumped. Two bees busied themselves on the roses outside the window while the TV switched subject and droned on about the latest Vatican denouncements. Afraid that panic would return now that I was alone, I busied myself with the groceries, and found out that I would suffer neither hunger nor second-rate food, everything being up to the strictest of Italian culinary standards. At the bottom of the last bag I found a thick paperback novel Angelo had thrown in for entertainment, I promessi sposi by Alessandro Manzoni. Clearly he was taking advantage of my situation under duress to prove that there was more to Italian culture than the Berlusconi TV channels.

The sight of the book, and the ensuing yawn, made me remember I hadn´t slept all night. I dragged myself upstairs, closed the shutters of the bedroom, and after pulling off my clothes and scaring away any lurking bugs from the bed I threw myself on the thick, crumpled white duvets that smelled of dry cotton and summer. The house might look rough and tumble, but whoever had designed it had done a great job. Either that, or someone had been there quite recently. Too tired to care, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep my mind vacant.

I woke up from a nightmare so suddenly that for a brief moment I was unable to move. Then my body was released from the paralysis of sleep and I could roll on my back, and draw a shaky breath as my eyes raked the room. I was alone; it had only been the dream. I hadn´t had it for a little more than a year now, ever since I moved to New York from Houston, and had completely forgotten about it. Well, it hadn´t forgotten about me, apparently.

The soft glow of a hill country dusk was slipping into the room through the shutters. I lay still, postponing the moment I´d have to get out of the bed, walk downstairs, and turn on the TV. The ghastly news extras would have started by now, and if they didn´t have my name yet they´d have it before the night was over. I stood up, stepped to the window, and opened the shutters to allow the cooling evening breeze to enter the room. Sun had already set, and the sky was a deepening shade of blue with distant towering clouds glowing orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape. I took a deep breath, and let the soothing effect of the hill country wash over me. As I watched, clouds thickened from the north, and streetlights flickered on in a small town tucked in a valley perhaps a mile away. Occasionally, the headlights of a car would pass through the town, and a few seconds later the distant hum of the motor reached the house. Life went on, so close to the house.

Descending the stairs I got a little jolt as I saw the gaping black doorway of the shed again, and wished I had spent more time exploring it during the day. It took some conscious effort to turn my back to the darkness as I entered the kitchen, and to not look over my shoulder as I prepared a whopping sandwich, opened a bottle of ice-cold Pepsi, and sat down at the old sturdy table. The kitchen light was hung with a flimsy old lampshade, faded colorless, but it seemed right for the room which still retained its original character of a poor country kitchen, furnished with old-fashioned fixtures and home-made shelves that were sparingly adorned by few small, painted flowers, so faded that they almost blended into the woodwork. Pieces of straw stuck out visibly from under the white plaster that covered the lower two thirds of the walls. My eyes lingered over the pathetic little flowers, and I wondered about the person who had painted them, and about her day-to-day life, so different from the well-heeled Milanese who came here now for their rustic holidays.

All the while, the blank dark grey screen of the TV set mocked me, daring me to turn it on. In the end I stood up, flicked the switch, and returned to my seat to watch the screen gradually light up. Two curved lines painstakingly expanded into a black and white image of Gabriele´s house, panned from the street that was partially illuminated by the camera crew and crowded with curious onlookers. Two police cars were parked in front of the closed gate, their lights flickering. A few lit candles clung to the wall circling the house, accompanied by some flowers, and the camera operator tried to make the most of them. My appetite was gone; I set the sandwich down on the chipped, white plate. The view shifted back to the studio, to the channel´s main news anchor, whose expression was appropriately sober except for an occasional, slightly bewildered look in his eyes that made me wonder if he´d known Gabriele personally.

“...of interest,” he was saying when the sound came on, “The police haven´t released any detailed information yet, but only few minutes ago Channel 5 was able to confirm the rumors that the homicide was committed with unimaginable brutality, and according to our sources there is reason to believe the act was carefully planned, suggesting a pre-existing relationship between the victim and the perpetrator.”

The director cut into an archive photo of Gabriele standing on a catwalk and surrounded by a group of his models, all male. I´d never done a runway show and obviously wasn´t in the photo, but it was clear that the Channel 5´s mole in the police already knew where the investigation was heading. More photos of Gabriele followed, shot in various other contexts. I glanced down at my hands, the bruises still fresh across my palms.

When I looked up, the prime minister was on. He expressed his condolences to Gabriele´s family and co-workers, talked for a while about Gabriele´s contribution to the Italian economy and national prestige, and added, “I have just talked with the interior minister, and I assured him the police will receive every assistance necessary to capture this heinous criminal as soon as possible. I´ve been told that the identity of the perpetrator shoud be confirmed and released to the media any time now, and even as we speak the police is already looking for him.”

I took another sip of my drink, to send down a bitter taste seeping up to my mouth. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick, but then got hold of myself. More people followed the prime minister on the screen, mostly celebrities who´d been Gabriele´s friends, and a couple of politicians who didn´t hesitate to grasp a moment of air time. I tried other channels, and most of them were having a live newscast on, with the rest running banners announcing the next update. I sat there, feeling cold, and grateful about Italy´s penal code neither carrying death penalty nor foreseeing extradiction back to Texas. Unable to tear myself away, I watched a recapitulation of Gabriele´s life, followed by a summary of everything the channel had found out so far.

“A friend, alarmed by Gabriele Zaigler not appearing for a meeting and not answering his telephone, found him brutally murdered in his home in the center of Milan this morning about ten o´clock. The friend, whose identity hasn´t been revealed, is presently under sedation in the San Carlo hospital, after having collaborated with the police earlier today. Several types of evidence pointing at the identity of the perpetrator have been found at the crime scene, and we´re expecting the police to release the information any moment now, including photographic material. It is believed that a some kind of pre-existing relationship between the victim and the murderer existed, both professional and personal, and we´ll fill you in all the details as soon as they become available.”

The director cut back to the scene outside Gabriele´s house, but as nothing was happening there an interview came on, of a former showgirl and present talk show host who was famous for the longest legs in Italy.

“We´ve always been great friends with Gabriele, and I think there´s definitely something not right about the circumstances of his death,” she declared belligerently. “I know him well, and if what I´ve been hearing is confirmed it simply cannot be the truth. Something´s wrong here.”

I leaned my head on my hands, and stared blindly at the worn terracotta tiles of the kitchen floor. So there was someone on my side; the longest legs in Italy, with all the credibility they brought into play. From what I was hearing, Angelo´s call to the police hadn´t had much of an effect, unsurprisingly. In my mind´s eye I saw Ocham, an old man in incongruous flowing robes, pointing his razor at me with a righteous frown.

Outside night had fallen, and the feeble light of the kitchen had begun attracting moths. With soft bumps they kept hitting the small kitchen window, and a little further, away from the faint circle of light, bats would be hunting in the dark and feasting on the small creatures taken in by my lamp. Some of them, both prays and predators, undoubtedly spent their days asleep in the dark shed.

The recorded interview was interrupted without a warning, in midsentence, with a little squeak. The anchorman was back, looking excited, and went into a quick self-promotional spiel.

After having reminded the viewers what a wonderful channel they were watching, he continued, “Our corrispondents have an important update, just in...”

My face filled the weakly lit grey screen. The anchorman´s speech hadn´t been all hype: Channel 5 had hit the jackpot. Either because they were the best at corrupting the police, or thanks to a quick-moving super producer in their staff, they´d found the ad for Gabriele´s fragrance for men I´d done last spring, with his name featured prominently at the bottom of the page. It was a simple black-and-white photo, shot against black backdrop, and the art director had made a prolonged fuss over how my expression was everything and would have to be perfect. The final result, a hint of a smile, was clearly unsuitable for a brutal killer and undoubtedly half the staff of Channel 5 was at the very moment frantically searching for something more appropriate. The photo shoot had been one of my last, too, as only two weeks later I´d been fired from the agency. I was sure that story would find its way to the news media as well. The voice of the anchorman became a distant, indistinct drone, repeating my name, Erik Loefgren, Erik Loefgren, Erik Loefgren.

“…Texan known by the police as a person connected to the Milanese underworld of male prostitution,” he was saying when I focused back on the transmission. “It is not known if Gabriele Zaigler was aware of this connection” – better not to risk a libel case with the estate – “as they must have met during the fragrance photo shoot. We do not wish, and cannot, speculate what may have caused the homicidal rage that brought Gabriele Zaigler´s life to an end, but one thing is clear: Erik Loefgren is a severely disturbed person, with extremely dangerous sadistic tendencies, and members of the public should not attempt to apprehend him if they see him. Please call the police, and wait for their arrival. It is not known whether he carries arms, but utmost caution is paramount if you should meet him.”

A new picture replaced Gabriele´s ad on the screen. This one was from the very last job, a spread for swimsuits we´d shot in a small island off Sardinia, famous for the unique pink beach formed by sand of dead corals and surrounded by amazingly turquoise sea. A special permit from the government had been necessary to access the island and we´d been severely warned not to carry away the tiniest amount of the sand as souvenir. The photo itself was a replica of a famous X-rated picture every gay on the planet had seen on the internet, but the twist here was that I wasn´t naked and the thin layer of sand sticking to my skin was pink; somehow in the new context the most innocuous of colors took on a sense of degeneration, even depravity, far beyond the vague original suggestion. I noticed that the company logo hadn´t been cropped out, even though it wasn´t Gabriele´s. The old maxim held true: any publicity is good publicity.

Then the newscast cycled back to the beginning while the producer scrambled for more news about my involvement, and of me as a person. I switched to RaiUno and watched a few more minutes before switching to yet another channel. Helpless to stop, I stayed in front of the TV all evening, forcing myself to eat every now and then. Shortly after midnight I couldn´t take it any longer. I clicked off the TV set, and leaned on the old cranky refrigerator, arms folded over my chest. I felt down and agitated, and angry, definitely not in the mood to settle down with an old classic like Promessi Sposi. Most of the people still awake would probably be watching the news; I could afford to take a walk to reconnoitre the surroundings, ready to duck into bushes if I saw approaching headlights. In an hour or so, there would be fresh updates on the investigation, and the manhunt.

I realized we hadn´t thought of clothes. I was still wearing nothing but my underwear, and upstairs I had only what I had brought along, my cammies and a t-shirt, and one pair of socks and shoes. Then, with a shudder, I remembered that the cammies were still smeared with blood. I wouldn´t be able to put them on until they´d been thoroughly washed. So I dragged myself upstairs, picked up my clothes and took them to the bathroom, and spent the next hour kneading them in hot water which always seemed to take on a reddish hue no matter how many times I changed it. After hanging the washing I went back to the television to see the last newscast of the night, but none of the channels had anything new to add. I spent the rest of the night watching movies, each of them older than the previous one, as the morning, very slowly, crept closer.

Chapter 5 - Mediterranean

It didn´t take long for Angelo to pry out all the details of the incident, as much to distract me as to satisfy his ever morbid curiosity, and half grudgingly I described him everything he wanted to know. I was still depicting the special throbbing character of the trucker´s foreskin when the road reached it highest point and we began the descent towards Genoa and the Mediterranean coast. Just having the mountain ridge between me and Milan was enough to make me feel a little better.

Angelo narrowed his eyes as the car entered another tunnel, leaving the bright sunlight behind.

“I´ll have to call the police as soon as I get back home,” he said.

I turned to him, alarmed.

He glanced at me. “They´ll check my phone record, too. Sooner or later.”

“That phone booth…” my voice trailed off. “They´ll figure it out.”

“In a way it´s a good thing,” Angelo claimed bravely. “Someone has to tell the police about those two mafia thugs.”

“I shouldn´t have called you.”

“Who else could you have called?” He glanced at me. “Calm down, you look like you´re going to start shaking again. I´ll just tell them you called and asked for help, and I said no.”

“Will they believe that?”

“What else can they do? They can´t prove anything. If they check the autostrada surveillance recordings they won´t see my car, and my cell phone is back home together with Luca who´ll give me an alibi.”

“He´s happy about that, I´m sure.”

Angelo choose not to comment. “I´ll tell the police that you decided to blackmail a married client into taking you to France.”

“I should have thought of that.”

Angelo chuckled at the very idea. “You? A cold-blooded blackmailer? Please.”

I threw him a dirty glance, with no discernible effect. We fell into listening to the radio but after a while, when the transmission was blocked by a tunnel and there was no longer music to distract me, I was back in Gabriele´s house with my mind replaying our encounter and that brief moment during sex when there had been a flicker of connection between us. It made me shudder to think how dismissive I´d been about it, those last moments of his life, and how he must have felt it.

About half an hour later we reached the outskirts of Genoa. Unwelcomingly, the autostrada entry to the city passed through an unsettling cemetary valley crowded with elaborate mausoleums and statues set in tiers on both sides of the road. My voice faltered in midsentence, and I felt Angelo´s reassuring hand on my thigh. I tried not to think either Gabriele or what would happen if an earthquake or a landslide hit us while we were driving through the macabre passage. Instead, I focused on the Mediterranean Sea, glittering beyond the high buildings of the city center, shockingly blue in the morning sun and dotted with white sails. I didn´t have a chance to see much else of Genoa as Angelo picked a ring road, avoiding the city proper, and soon we were back in the mountains with only an occasional sparkle of the sea visible to the right. Then, about ten minutes later, he swerved to an exit ramp without an explanation.

“We´re still in Liguria,” I said. “Where are we going?”

“Pieve Ligure.”

I couldn´t believe it. “The gay beach?”

“Right. It´ll be empty this hour,” Angelo reassured me. “You deserve a quick splash in the sea before holing up in the house for the summer.”

“Is it really safe? I mean, you´re in enough trouble as it is. And it´s an illegal beach, too.”

“Yes, the cliff overhead is dangerous,” he shrugged. “But you need something… normal, before I leave you alone.”

The breakneck beach could only be considered normal by Italians, I thought, but Angelo was right. A few minutes in the waves with a friend would be an important step away from the previous night.

The narrow state road hugging the coast was another spectacle with its view over the sea, sharp turns and unexpected plunges and ascents, and lines of lemon and orange trees squeezed dangerously close to the – presumably – two lanes. We passed through an arch of an ancient fortress, then turned to a side road, and Angelo parked the car at an alarmingly steep uphill stretch as if it was the most natural thing to do.

“We don´t have swimsuits,” I noted.

“So?”

There was no fighting his kind of logic, and we climbed over a railing separating the road from the abyss. There was a sign that said “FORBIDDEN AREA - OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED ACCORDING TO ALL ARTICLES OF LAW”, which we happily ignored and began the descent. The slope was almost vertical, except for the places where it was vertical, and frayed nylon ropes tied to a couple of gnarled trees which inexplicably managed to hold on to the mountain wall were the only thing keeping us from plunging into the chasm. Halfway through, the path passed along the top of an odd concrete wall that had no apparent purpose, requiring tightrope-walking skills from the prospective sunbathers lest they end smashed on the rocks far below. The rocks themselves, sized between large suitcases and Japanese cars, had fallen from the overhanging cliff with no regard for the unlucky muscleboys sunbathing at their landing sites. It wasn´t hard to see why the beach had been outlawed, even discounting the crusades of local christian politicians against out-of-town gay men polluting their sea. The narrow shingle beach, wedged between boulders as tall as houses, was isolated by two sharp promontories of bare rock which made every other access impossible, and when we reached the bottom the distinct sound of the beach made itself heard with every long, lazy wave.

A straight nudist couple was sprawled on the beach – as far from the cliff as possible – enjoying a respite from gay activities, or perhaps expecting some to help pass the boring hours of sunbathing. Angelo set a bottle of orange juice he had brought along in a pool of cool water in the shadow of a boulder, and pulled off his t-shirt, followed by his shoes and khakis. Then it was the turn for his white underwear, and I watched the strong muscles of his back and legs flex rhythmically as he waded into the waves. After a quick glance at the direction of the couple I removed my clothes as well, and followed Angelo. It was still early morning, and the water was unpleasantly cool at first, but I got used to it after a few strokes. For a while we bobbed up and down in the water like two corks, grinning stupidly. Then I happened to glance back at the beach and noticed that the straight couple was gone. Angelo followed my gaze, but instead of searching for them he turned the other way and scanned the sea.

“Cazzo! A police boat,” he said, kicking water. “Follow me.”

His head slipped under the surface, and I saw him turn underwater and start diving towards the boulders, the surge from his powerful kick making me sway. I took a deep breath, jack-knifed my body, and dived as cleanly as I could. The bottom was mostly covered by green algae, with some colorful sea creatures either jetting by, or clinging to the rocks below, and the dancing reflection of the sun´s glitter would have been hypnotizing if it hadn´t been for the rising dread that made my swimming inefficient, forcing me to surface for breath much sooner than I had planned. Feeling horribly exposed, I managed to gasp twice as quickly as I could before I was lifted to the crest of the next tall wave, my head clearly visible to all directions, and with my lungs still burning I plunged back into the quiet of the sea. Ahead of me, I saw Angelo vanish into a dark shadow between two huge boulders, but I needed to breathe so badly that I had to rise to the surface again for more air. Another rising wave was lifting me alarmingly high and I almost inhaled a mouthful of water in my panicky hurry to dive. Finally the shadow of a boulder darkened the water around me and I slipped between the rocks, rising to the surface with my face scrunched with the pain of oxygen deprivation. Angelo caught a hold of me and kept my head above the water while I gasped for air, and tried to warn him that the police had seen me.

“I know they did,” he said, his big arms tightening around me.

I stared at him, incredulous. “Then why did we-“

“For appearance´s sake,” Angelo said, explaining things to a dumb foreigner. “If they´re straight they´ll pretend they saw no one. I mean, why bother?”

“And if they´re not straight?”

“They´ll come after us only if they´re nosy closet cases.”

“Isn´t that what most Italians are?” I asked, receiving a poke in the ribs as an answer.

We waited, with the waves gently swaying us and Angelo´s arms conspicuously holding me despite the snooping police boat. I was getting distracted by the warmth of his body, and the thick hardening cylinder of flesh pressing against my leg.

A couple of minutes passed, but there was no sign of the law enforcement.

“I told you they were straight,” Angelo mumbled into my ear, his large hands cupping my butt and hitching me higher.

His hard-on pushed in between my thighs, like a long thick beer can filled with warm water, and I wound my arms around his neck for balance. Then his big, muscular tongue slipped into my mouth, and after a while we forgot all about the police.

Chapter 4 - Aiding and abetting

Half an hour passed, and there was no sign of Angelo. One by one, the waiting cabs received a call and left, or perhaps they grew tired and went home to sleep. Hiding in the shadows of a portico, I warily kept scanning the empty piazza and almost bolted when a street-sweeper appeared behind a corner with an age-old broom that the city had not seen fit to update to something more modern and efficient. He barely glanced at my direction, probably judging me a drunk blond northern tourist, and disappeared into the direction of the Duomo. Every now and then I heard a car approach, but none of them was the large German sedan Angelo used for work -he could hardly present himself with a convertible army jeep at a law firm- and I promptly retreated back into the shadows, heart thumping. When forty minutes had passed a police car rumbled by, causing my legs to tremble so badly I almost stumbled as I stepped back into my hiding place, and as soon as it had vanished a BMW Roadster slowed down and stopped at the cab rank, with no one getting off. The roof of the convertible was up, hiding the driver, and as I watched the reflection of the car on a shop window I could feel the trembling of my legs get worse and worse. Then the headlights flared quickly, and I hesitantly emerged in sight, trying to see inside the car. The dark shape of the driver leaned over the passenger seat, and the door opened. It was Angelo. I jumped in.

“Did - did you see the police car?” I stuttered.

“Yes,” he answered coolly, but his expression was worried as he observed me. “Are you OK?”

I nodded. “Who´s car is this?”

He switched gears. “Luca´s. I´ll explain you later.”

After an acceleration of only a hundred meters he slammed down the brakes and parked between two vans in one heart-stopping swerve, as only Italians can. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a tight bear hug, his chin resting on top of my head. For a while, neither one moved. It wasn´t the most comfortable position imaginable, with the rather ostentatious chrome and leather gear stick digging into my hip, but I wasn’t going to complain.

“You almost got yourself killed tonight,” he said accusingly, never having been too happy about my career choice.

He let go of me, after a final crushing squeeze, and I slid back to my seat as he steered the car back into the late night traffic.

“Gabriele Zaigler did.”

Angelo winced. “I met him a couple of times. He seemed like a nice guy, and I´m really sorry for him.” He glanced at me. “But, you know, I´m not that surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“It´s an open secret that when he started his business he was backed by the mafia,” Angelo said. “Then during the recession everyone else had to cut back their production except him, and afterwards there was a Guardia di Finanza probe into money laundering.” His tone turned caustic. “Nothing came out of it, naturally.”

“I see.” And I did. Mafia collusion was a rather widely used term in Italian. “Do you think it was a coincidence that the police fingerprinted me just a month ago? And that I have worked for Gabriele?”

Angelo thought about it for a moment. “I think it´s just a coincidence. I mean, you´re very special and everything- “ he flashed me one of his wicked smiles “- and you made quite a splash when you first came to Milan, but there was hardly enough time for you to become famous before that-“

“I get the picture,” I interrupted.

“Of course, there may be a closeted mafioso who reads L´Uomo Vogue.”

He almost managed to make me smile this time, but not quite, and seeing that he´d failed Angelo reached out with one hand and grabbed me by the neck, the way I liked, and after pulling me a little closer kneaded lightly the tender spot under my ear with his thumb. A warm reassuring feeling spread into my chest. There was someone in this world who liked me.

We were in the outer circonvallazione, and I noticed the Autostrada sign. “So, where are we going?”

“You´re going to have a long holiday in Tuscany.”

“Tuscany. Sounds good.”

The drive would take us three or four hours. There would be plenty of time to talk. I sat back in my seat, with my muscles slowly relaxing as I soaked up the feeling of temporary safety Angelo´s presence gave me. I would ask questions later. About fifteen minutes later we were out of the city, and passed into the autostrada proper through a toll booth. I had spent the time doing my best to calm down, but I still started to shake every few minutes when the memory of Gabriele´s face crashed back into my mind.

I finally felt calm enough to try some coherent conversation. “So tell me about this holiday in Tuscany.”

“It´s an old farm house not far from Pisa, in the hill country,” Angelo said. “The place belongs to a friend of mine, Carlo, but he´s in Boston until September and I happen to know where the spare key is hidden.”

“Carlo doesn´t know that I´ll be staying in his place?”

“It´s safer that way. And don´t worry, we´re good friends. If anything should happen, like someone else should show up, just mention my name and it´ll be OK.”

“I don´t like that ´if someone should show up´ part.”

“It won´t happen, trust me. I wouldn´t take you to a place where strangers suddenly pop up. I only told you as a precaution.” He looked at me, anxiously. “Now, calm down. Stop shaking. I promise, no one will come.”

I drew a few deep breaths. “I´m fine.”

He reached out and rubbed my neck again with his thumb, and I started feeling better.

“What am I going to do about money?” I asked after a while. “My bank card is in my apartment-“

“Don´t worry about it,” Angelo interrupted, emphatically. “I´ll take care of that part, and besides, you won´t be needing any. I´ll come down once a week with a load of groceries.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. “Another reason why you don´t need any money is because you can´t leave the house. By tomorrow evening everyone in the whole country will recognize you.”

“My fifteen minutes.”

“I´m afraid it´ll last longer than that.”

The silhouette of the towering mountains ahead had turned visible against sky that was paling into a cool, crisp summer morning. Soon the road began the ascent, and the lush greenery, glistening with dew, almost spilled onto the road from the steep mountain walls. The view had a sharp-edged reality, different from the plain of the river Po where traces of thin haze remained even in the clearest days, and once again I watched enthralled as the road curved along the slopes in broad sweeps, slipped into tunnels and reappeared on top of breath-taking viaducts. Higher and higher we rose, our ears popping frequently in the thinning air, even inside the long tunnels, which seemed odd and a little unsettling as there was no other sense of gradient.

As we emerged from one of the tunnels, ever closer to the topmost pass we´d have to traverse, the sun had risen high enough to slip into view from between mountain peaks. Its rays were slanting across the valley, and at the bottom, far below us, a river that was meandering lazily within its course of white rocks and sand glittered like black mercury. Here and there a lonely farmhouse clung to the slopes, barely visible, deeply embedded into the lush forest. Then the road curved around a mountain, and an odd construction with a vague resemblance to the top of the Seattle space needle came into view.

“There it is,” Angelo said, contented. “An Autogrill.”

“We´re stopping? I´m - hungry,” I realized.

“You can´t come in,” Angelo announced. “With your looks, people remember you. I´ll bring you something.”

“Well…” I hesitated. “I should use the bathroom.”

“There´s a rest area ahead, we can stop there.”

“It´s not one of those, is it?” Certain rest areas, all over the country, were famous for gay cruising.

“How would I know?” Angelo said archly, implying the presence of someone better acquinted with subject.

He parked the car as far from the building as possible without being conspicuous about it, and while he was inside the shop I tried to look as invisible as possible when passers-by stared at the fancy roadster. When Angelo returned he handed me a chicken sandwich and a soft drink.

“And now let´s take you to the toilets.”

He made it sound like a cruising expedition to the Grand Central Station, and I gave him a weak smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Some ten minutes later he slowed down the car. “There it is.”

The rest area had been built in a rare level spot which hadn´t required extensive landscaping. There was a long, narrow parking lot separated from the road by a line of trees, a small park with a few tables and benches, and the white utilities building. Angelo came to a halt with a flourish expected from a BMW Roadster, and I got off. The only other vehicle present was a semi with foreign logos plastered on the sides, and as I walked by I saw Prague written under the ads. So it came from the Czech Republic, with the driver hopefully asleep in the cabin and oblivious to other visitors to the rest area.

The toilet was quite filthy, as I had expected, and I decided not to use the stalls but one of the two urinals crammed into a narrow corridor-like space. I had just started when a shadow fell into the room. Someone entering the toilet had blocked the doorway and, nervous as I was, my flow instantly dried up. I was left standing with my dick in my hand, staring at a spot on the wall in front of my eyes and trying to relax as the figure stepped next to me and unzipped his pants. I waited a few moments, but there was no sound, and my heart started beating faster. As the silence stretched uncomfortably I tried to form a picture of the man at the edge of my vision, all the while struggling to let go. He was probably a little shorter than me, but clearly heavier, with a strongly built body that was going to seed. He was wearing a white t-shirt, tight over his belly, the sleeves barely able to accommodate the burly arms, and his jeans were spectacularly ill-fitting, or so I thought, unwilling to glance at him even fleetingly. His face was a dark blur, with a thick stubble and black hair cut very short, almost military-style. A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I looked down, reflexively. The man was holding a wide-backed, veined dick in his fist, squeezing it slowly to make the long, drooping foreskin slide upwards to expose the dark red glans. My face went hot, and I focused my eyes back on the spot on the wall.

Nothing happened for a moment. There was no way I could urinate with a Czech truck driver masturbating next to me. I started tucking myself back into my underwear, a task made somewhat difficult due to the infuriating hold the steroids were having over me, and the man nudged me with his massive shoulder.

“I see you like,” he said in heavily accented Italian, and gave another squeeze to his bloated cock. “Touch it.”

“No,” I said quietly but resolutely.

However, having to palm down the bulge in my underwear, to be able to zip up my pants, rather undermined my credibility.

He took half a step back, to better show himself, and to make it more difficult to pass by him in the cramped space. His eyes were blue, and narrowed. This was no friendly come-on, but something the man seemed to expect as his due.

“You like.”

He was fully erect now, the sloppy excess of foreskin slipping back and forth over the swollen head with each stroke of his hand. A vein throbbing at the back of his hard-on snaked all the way down to the foreskin, puffing it up, and his breathing was getting distinctly deep and fast. I´d have to push him aside to be able to leave the urinal, and there was no telling how he´d react. I had pegged him straight, with a wife waiting back home, and being shoved by someone he considered an Italian tearoom cocksucker would not be taken lightly.

I almost said, “Jealous boyfriend in the car. Big one,” but held back the last moment.

There was still a chance he hadn´t noticed Angelo, and wouldn´t even remember me if I didn´t make a scene. I laid my hand on his shoulder, and feigning a friendly smile, shook my head ruefully.

“Big cock. But can´t now,” I said, to satisfy his ego while gently exerting pressure to move him aside.

He didn´t budge, and now both of us were clearly starting to lose patience. I considered slugging the man, as I was no weakling myself, but I knew I couldn´t match him in meanness and I´d be in the losing end if a fight broke out. Besides, to put it mildly, I had already had more than my share of violence for one day. Slowly but firmly I pushed my way past him, ignoring the thick pressure of his erection against my leg, but when he grabbed my hand and placed it on his dick I snarled at him and yanked my hand back. Suddenly furious, I refused to run to Angelo for cover and entered a cubicle, slamming the door hard behind me, uncaring if a hand or a leg was crushed in the process. Fortunately, the man had held back, impressed by my snarl, and no fisticuffs ensued. I heard him scuffle outside the stall while I forced myself to calm down, but I managed to finish my business only after he had left the building.

There was no sign of him when I came out of the toilet, walked to the car and slumped down on my seat.

“That was quick,” Angelo quipped, throwing a leer at the direction of the truck, but I could tell he was worried and seeing my expression his frown deepened. “Did you get into trouble with the trucker? I saw him follow you.”

“Let´s just go,” I answered. “I´ll tell you on the way.”

He shook his head, unbelievingly. “Can´t leave you alone for a second.” He started the car. “He´s going to remember you, no doubt about it.”

“The truck is from Czech Republic, and he barely speaks Italian. I don´t think he watches the news here. And he didn´t see you.”

“But he saw the car.”

“Luca won´t like that one bit.”

“He sure won´t,” Angelo answered, maneuvering the car back to the autostrada and towards Genoa.

Chapter 3 - Gabriele Zaigler

I was lying on the floor on my stomach, and my hands were hurting, badly. So was my head. It took some effort to force my eyes open, and I decided it was better to lay still for a while longer, merely trying to adjust my eyes to the light.

The room appeared perfectly normal. There was no sign of a fight, and no sign of the thugs either. The black gym bag was gone. I let out a sigh of relief, and turned to my hands to see what was wrong with them. A grey electric cord – a phone cord, I realized – was wrapped around them, forming a garrote. There were visible bruises on my palms where the cord had been pulled tight. I stared at them for a moment, and then the implications of what I was seeing began to sunk into my sluggish brain. I looked around and noticed the old-fashioned telephone dropped on the floor, on the other side of the bed, and the receiver silent at the end its cord under the rococo desk. Then I saw that the loops of rope were still knotted around the bedposts, but from the floor it was impossible to tell if someone was still lying on top of the bed.

I rolled onto my back, unwilling to stand up, afraid that I would vomit if I did, and even more afraid of what I would find once I did get on my feet. Very slowly, trying to breathe regularly and not go into hyperventilation, I began to unwound the cord around my hands. They were shaking badly, and the cord became entangled. I stopped, took a deep breath, and carefully undid the knot. The bruises would remain visible for days, I realized. They were no accident. They had been added intentionally after whatever had taken place was over.

When my head had cleared a little more I gradually sat up, leaning on the hardwood floor with one hand, fighting nausea, and keeping my eyes averted from the bed. However, at the edge of my vision, I couldn´t help seeing the soles of the feet of the dead man. He was still tied to the bed, in the same position. I stood up, and recoiled from the sight.

His back, buttocks and thighs had been whipped or caned savagely while he was still alive, as almost every lash had bled copiously onto the bed. An extremely wealthy client – he wouldn´t have paid the special fee otherwise – had once wanted to whip me, and I knew how surprisingly painful the experience was even when utmost restraint was practiced. I stared at the sight, aghast, and couldn´t imagine the pain the man had endured, and yet it hadn´t been sufficient for the thugs. The huge steel dildo had been inserted deep into his anus, whether before or after the whipping I couldn´t tell, and remembering how tight the man had been I knew he could never have been able to accommodate the ribbed shaft without brutal violence. My legs were becoming wobbly again, no longer because of the drug, and I had to lean on a wall to stay upright.

The hood had been removed, and I realized that not even the most truculent slash movies had ever dared to portray the signs of strangulation truthfully. The man´s disfigured face was dark and swollen, bloodshot eyes gaping wide open, and a black tongue, grotesquely engorged, protruded from the grimacing mouth. It crossed my mind that until recently this was what people had gathered to watch as a pastime in the town marketplace. My stomach churned, both at the sight and the thought of people watching it happen, and I turned away. After blinking a few times to clear my vision I glanced around the room to see if my clothes were still there, but then something in the back of my mind made me look at the man again, and with a sinking feeling I realized I knew him. Not personally, although I had worked for his company before my modeling agency had so humiliatingly fired me. It was Gabriele Zaigler.

His self-made fashion empire provided a significant percentage of Italy´s economy and export figures and employed tens of thousands of people through its fashion, make-up and luxury goods subsidiaries, not to mention the indirect locomotive effect he had on the industry and the prestige of the entire nation. To know his name suddenly made it all so much worse, and for a moment I thought I was going to lose it and start yelling, perhaps running. Smashing things. I took a few deep breaths and managed to regain a degree of self-control, focusing tightly on one of the oil paintings on the wall, staring at a stupid-looking, gnarling lapdog at the skirt hems of a society lady. The grisly details of Gabriele´s death would be the news story of the year, and I would be the lurid and mean half of it. Another spell of nausea and dizziness came over me, and I had to sit down, turning away from Gabriele and burying my head in my hands.

The thugs had told him what was going to happen before my arrival. They´d tied him up, gagged him, and told him. All the time I´d been fucking him, he´d known. My instincts, and reason, had warned me something was wrong, but I´d chosen to ignore them for the money, and for the thrill of taking a helpless man tied to a bed.

My cammies were still lying on the floor – there was an almost hidden bloodstain on one of the legs, and certainly not by accident – and I reluctantly picked them up. My cell phone had vanished from the side pocket. The thugs had called me come from Gabriele Zaigler´s home number, and it would take the police merely minutes to check his record and find out who´d been called. Come to think of it, my phone was probably hidden somewhere in the house to be found by the investigators, perhaps fallen under a couch in my presumed hurry to escape the crime scene. That would save the police a lot of trouble, if the fingerprints on the hideous metal dildo weren´t clear enough. I remembered the energy drink can, of which there was no sign, and who knew how many other objects had been pressed into my hands and left around the house to be tested and matched against the prints in my apartment. Not even that would be necessary, I realized. About a month earlier, a police patrol had picked me up from Piazza Trento and taken me to a station to be photographed and fingerprinted. No charges had been pressed, as prostitution wasn´t illegal in Italy, but the police did their best to have a file on every hustler in town in case they murdered a client. And a telephone cord was apparently the classic device used by drug-crazed, gay-panicked straight hustlers who killed their clients when they suddenly realized they liked what they were doing. Then I remembered the hitmen´s obsession for the used condom, and couldn´t help glancing at the dead body. DNA evidence would be found in his anal cavity, sealing the case against me.

I could squirm as much I wanted, but there was no getting out of the hook. I felt a sudden shock of irrational anger towards Gabriele Zaigler. People didn´t usually get professional mafia hitmen after them unless they deserved it. However, one brief look at his terrified, suffering face cured me of this lack of sympathy. I stood still for a moment, unsure what to do, and then opened the nearest cupboard – my fingerprints were all over the place in any case – and picked up the first piece of white fabric I saw. It turned out to be a silk sheet, and I laid it down over his twisted body, the most I was able to do to show him some respect.

When I was pulling on my t-shirt, and wiping tears from my face, another thought occurred to me. No one would believe it was just a coincidence that I had worked for his label for the previous season´s advertising campaign. There would be tabloid stories of casting couch and long-standing mercenary relationship, jealousy and greed, despite the fact that I had never met him in person and the casting had been done by his art director, who had also supervised the photo shoot. I wondered if the thugs had known about my work, and chosen me because of it.

The police should already have arrived. I had to get out of the house. I headed for the corridor, found the lights and flicked them on, and yet hesitated to step forward when I saw the long line of doors, some of them gaping open like black mouths. Get a grip, I told myself. The thugs are gone. There´s no one else here. Yet I almost ran for the staircase, unable to muster any sangue froid, and as I turned the corner to the stairs I looked back, half expecting Gabriele´s agonized corpse to stand at the bedroom door, waving at me. Of course there was no one.

Cautiously, I crossed the library, and the living room, and found myself holding my breath as I slipped out of the front door. All the surrounding houses were dark, and the street was quiet. But then, it didn’t really matter; all the necessary evidence had already been planted. I walked fast towards the circonvallazione, a thoroughfare that circled the very center of the city, to find myself a cab. I was past caring if the driver would later recognize me, as the most important thing was to get home as soon as possible, gather my things, and go. It would take less than half an hour for the police to arrive at my place once they found the cell phone. I stopped at the corner of the circonvallazione when a new and alarming thought crossed my mind. Why hadn´t the police arrived already, catching me red-handed in the crime scene? Why hadn´t the thugs called 112, complaining about ruckus and screaming from Gabriele Zaigler´s house?

I was the only one who´d seen the two thugs. If I was to, say, commit suicide at home after having realized what I´d done, the case would be closed. No one would ever suspect anything. There had been no need to carry my drugged body away from Gabriele´s house, arousing suspicions and perhaps being seen, when they knew I´d run back to my own apartment and in their hands as soon as I woke up. It was a foregone conclusion that no hustler would call the police after waking up next to a dead client.

I hated the idea of involving him, but I had no other choice but to call Angelo. I reached Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and continued to Piazza Duomo where there were two newsagent´s open through the night. I bought a phone card and finally found an unvandalized booth near Piazza San Babila, with the receiver still attached to the main unit and no chewing gum shoved into the card slot. Then I realized I didn´t know Angelo´s number. It had been memorized in my cell phone. I searched the instructions plaque I´d always laughed at – who didn´t know how to use a telephone? – but there it was, the number for elenco abbonati. I called the operator, hoping no maniac or vengeful ex-boyfriend had forced Angelo to switch to a secret number, but I was lucky. As his phone rang, I glanced at the digital clock set on top of one of the buildings. It was half past three.

“Pronto?” a cranky voice answered. It wasn´t Angelo.

“Luca, is that you?” I asked, cursing under my breath. “This is Erik. Can I talk to Angelo?”

“Oh, you.” He sounded like I was calling for a donation for starving children. “What time is it?”

“It´s late. Is he there?”

“He´s asleep.”

There was a moment of silence, and then I heard Angelo´s voice in the background. Luca mumbled something, and Angelo picked up the phone.

"Erik? Is everything all right?”

“No. I need to talk to you. Without Luca listening in.” There was a pause, as we both knew the consequences of excluding a boyfriend from a late night call. “Please.”

“Just a moment. I´ll take the phone to the living room.”

I heard more mumbling, then someone raised his voice, and a moment later a door closed.

“OK, I´m getting worried here. What´s going on?”

I told Angelo everything that had happened. Every now and then he asked a relevant question, calm and business-like.

Having finished, I asked, “What should I do? Call the police?”

I had expected him to say yes, outright, and when there was a silence instead it hit me how hopeless my situation really was.

“I don´t work in criminal law,” he started. “But if those bastards haven´t made any mistakes, like leaving DNA in the house, or letting someone see them enter, it would be very difficult to defend you in court. Let me think.”

There was another pause. “I´ll pick you up there in San Babila in about twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Angelo.” I was so relieved my knees went weak.

“Are there any taxis waiting for clients?”

“Two.”

“Stay close to them,” he warned before hanging up.

Chapter 2 - The out call

Ever since I´d made my latest career move I no longer had to spend my evenings, especially on Sundays, fretting over the early wake-up call the next morning. I could sleep as late as I wanted, usually getting up at leisurely one o´clock in the afternoon, sometimes even later if I felt particularly slothful and had earned well the previous days. Having gone through my slow-motion morning routines of high-protein breakfast and reading the daily papers on line, I set off for the gym, looking forward to my daily dose of male flesh in various stages of undress and, fairly regularly, arousal. Even the first whiff of the locker room as I entered, with its mixture of soap, detergent, and the strong underlying male scent, was often sufficient to give me a quick stab of a hard-on that subsided only when my nose became accustomed to the smell. The situation wasn´t much easier in the weight room, where most Italian men seemed to shun baggy sportswear and most of them wore outfits that were designed to show off not only their muscles but their sturdy genitals as well, and in great detail.

On Monday evening, after the workout, I got a call from one of my favourite clients on my way home. Marco was a handsome Italian financial adviser in his early forties, always impeccable in his Armani suit which hinted at the muscular gym-trained body underneath, and he never took off his wedding ring before visiting me. It was always a turn-on to watch his strong hand slide up and down my shaft, caressing the bulging veins and the leaking head, while the pale golden ring glinted wickedly in the dim light of my apartment. He wanted to book me for Wednesday evening, and I certainly had no objections. In addition to great sex, each of his visits paid half of the monthly rent, and so I was in quite good mood when I got off the antiquated yellow tram and dropped by the corner store to buy some pasta farfalle and pesto genovese. With Marco visiting on Wednesday, I could easily afford a night off and either rent a DVD or check out the new bathhouse – although unfavourably reviewed - that had recently opened only few blocks from my place. A movie with Angelo was out of question, as Luca had just returned from Rome where he´d been visiting his parents for a couple of days.

There was no elevator in my building, and I climbed the four floors to the small loft apartment I´d been renting for almost a year, ever since I moved to Milan after my brief and unlucky stay in New York. The furnishings were still far from complete; there was nothing but a low couch of minimalist, white design which had been unreasonably expensive despite being second-hand, and an old 1950s metallic reading light I had found in a thrift shop. The white walls were bare as I never seemed to find anything that I wanted to see staring back at me day after day, and likewise there were no carpets on the gleaming hardwood floor. There was no table either; my laptop computer lay on the floor next to the couch that doubled as my bed, along with a small acquarium Angelo had given me for my birthday. The kitchen was hardly any more practical than the living room, as I had spent my money on two period barstools by a Scandinavian designer and continued to use the countertop as a table. However, the few pieces of furniture I had were all first-rate, and I happily ignored the remarks on my weird unfinished choices by guests who frequently risked stepping on my computer.

I prepared the farfalle al pesto, and turned on the TV to see if there was anything interesting on while I wolfed down the pasta. Despite the networks´ best efforts to keep their viewers watching, and most of all to keep them awake, the programming backfired miserably as my eyelids began feeling heavy after clicking through channels showing an Italian TV series about the tribulations of a particularly full-breasted Roman actress, a footballer´s girlfriend guessing the number of beans in a glass jar, and something that resembled celebrity karaoke. Admittedly, my lassitude wasn´t all due to the lousy programs, as Angelo had decided that an afternoon in Como hadn´t been enough and had stayed over in my place until the early hours. I wondered if he´d had trouble staying awake during all those mind-numbing meetings about procedural pitfalls or something similar in his family´s law firm where he was going to be a partner in not too distant future.

The ring of my phone woke me up, and apart from the flickering blue light of the TV set, now showing a rerun of Get Smart, the apartment was in the dark. My phone was unable to ID the caller, but as far as I could tell the prefix belonged to a residential line in Milan.

“Am I speaking with Erik?”

“That´s me,” I replied, rationing some professional good humor into my voice since I had discovered, to my surprise, that most clients preferred someone who sounded nice instead of a single-minded sex maniac.

“You gave me your number in Piazza Trento some time ago,” he said. The voice was matter-of-fact, and not very friendly. “I´d like to see you tonight, if that´s fine with you.”

“Sure.” I only gave my number to men I liked, much to the chagrin of Sebastian, my Brazilian friend who had put the idea of hustling into my head. It´s unprofessional, he kept telling me, as if choosing one´s clients were comparable to a priest sending away people who wanted to confess.

“You said you do both in and out calls,” the man continued. “Could you come over here, let´s say, in a half an hour? I live near the city center.”

“Sounds fine to me. What´s your address?”

“There´s something I´d like to explain to you first. We´re a male couple, both tops, and sometimes we do a threesome with a friend who likes it rough. What we´d like you to do is to come here and fuck him while we watch.”

So there would be two men I hadn´t seen before. I hesitated a moment.

“You´d find us wearing leather, and our friend already tied to a bed,” the man continued. “It´s an unusual scene, so we´d pay double. For each of us.”

That was six times my regular fee. “Would you want me to wear leather, too? Or restraints?”

“No, that won´t be necessary,” the man assured me.

“All right. I´ll be over in half an hour.”

The man gave me the address. “I´ll add the taxi fares to your fee. We´d like you to get here as soon as possible.”

Keeping an eye on the clock I quickly swallowed a few cookies and a yoghurt, thinking back at the conversation. I felt uneasy about a bondage scene with total strangers, but at the same time the idea was making my heart beat faster. If everything went right the job could be particularly exciting, and then there was the not inconsiderable amount of money they´d pay me for topping their helpless friend. I put on a t-shirt and a pair of cammies, stacked a side pocket with lube and condoms, slipped my cell phone in the other, and called a cab.

I hadn´t known there were mansions with private gardens so close to the very center of the city. When the cab driver turned away from one of the main thoroughfares I was quite surprised by the lavishness of the small street he had entered. The houses looked like something one might expect to see in Côte d´Azur facing the Mediterranean and not in the center of a major industrial city. The sidewalks were lined with huge trees that engulfed the streetlights until they became merely ornamental, glittering uncertainly through the foliage and doing little to illuminate the street itself. I paid the driver, and as the car vanished into the darkness I stood still awhile, studying the place. All the houses were surrounded by inhospitable spiky fences, or brick walls with their tops undoubtedly sprinkled with broken glass, and many of them were unlit since, I presumed, the inhabitants were presently either residing at the Paris Ritz or relaxing in the Caribbean. The air smelled fresh and at the same time of moist earth, like in a large city park, and the sound of the traffic was reduced into a distant hum. The house I was standing in front of had two floors, and it had been built noticeably later than the others, perhaps replacing an older mansion that had been hit during the Allied bombings during the World War II and deemed irreparable. Less ornamented than the others, it bore the marks of postwar architecture although by no means could one call the building modest. All the curtains were drawn, letting only faint suggestions of light through to indicate that someone was home, and to get my libido up and running I spent a moment imagining what was happening behind the darkened façade of the house. Then I pressed the gate buzzer.

The lock clicked open almost immediately. I stepped through, and the heavy gate swung back with suprising force and clanged shut, making me jump. No neighbors opened their windows to protest, though, with the trees stifling the noise as efficiently as they hid the other houses from view. Privacy was clearly highly appreciated in this enclave of privilege. The garden was rather narrow but skillfully designed, with its two large maples among the culprits smothering the street lights, and to compensate the effect there were several dim garden lanterns to draw attention to the some of the best features: a rosebush that seemed to be bursting with deep red blooms, another one with delicate white flowers, and an ancient marble fountain sprouting water from the jug of a rather mouldy female figure. A stairway, lined with potted palm trees, lead to a porch that ran the width of the house and served no other purpose but to accommodate another extensive array of plants, some of them creeping up the pillars to almost hide the terracotta roof of the porch, and others dangling down to the ground, their blooms swaying in an occasional breeze. I pressed another buzzer, and cranked the old-fashioned handle after hearing the click of the lock. The door was so heavy it had to be armored, and it took some effort to push it open.

I found myself in an empty vestibule, with the host apparently unwilling to risk a glimpse of his leather kit to any neighbors despite the protection provided by the trees. I closed the door behind me, and walked into the living room, an expression that seemed inadequate for such a large shadowy space. The most prominent feature was a large fireplace of grey marble, with a massive leather couch and two matching armchairs facing it. Generously proportioned oil paintings hang on the walls, mostly portraits, each with its own muted spotlight, the only source of illumination in the room. There were various antique tables, vases with enormous flower settings, and three potted trees between the front windows, but any further details were lost on me as my attention focused on the sole figure standing in front of me.

He was an inch or two shorter than me but obviously no stranger to steroids, and he wasn´t in full leather drag as I had expected. Instead, he was wearing a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt that showed off the beginnings of a gut, but given the thick muscular arms and legs the overall effect was proportionate and, undeniably, quite stimulating. Adding to the perverse appeal was a pair of black kid gloves, which had always been a turn-on for me, and a perfectly fitting executioner´s black leather hood that removed all expression from his eyes. The skin of his powerfully built arms was tanned, and of a shade that suggested him being from the south of Italy. I felt a sudden rush of blood into my groin, building up a pleasureable heaviness against my cammies.

“Hi Erik,” the man said. “You´re looking good.”

“So are you,” I said, sincerely.

“Let´s get this part over and done with.” He handed me a few banknotes which I pocketed without looking at them. “Let´s go upstairs.”

Most of the house was in the dark, and I had to pay attention not to stumble as I followed him through a library with floor-to-ceiling shelving and a massive mahogany writing desk, and all the appropriate paraphernalia including an large-sized antique globe held in an old-fashioned wooden framework. Then we climbed a wide staircase, and continued along a corridor with several doors, some of them open, others closed, and I caught a partial look of several lavishly furnished bedrooms and a home theater. Only one of the rooms was illuminated; the master bedroom, at the end of the corridor. It was decorated as the rest of the house, with dark gleaming wood and rich, embroidered fabrics that shimmered in the dim light of two bedside lamps. For a moment, I paused at the doorway, taking in the view.

Leaning against a rococo writing desk, arms crossed across his chest and in harsh contrast to the delicate piece of furniture, stood the other top. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a t-shirt as well, and the same type of gloves and hood as his friend. He was taller, with a more average build, and perhaps because of him standing still and not talking, only staring at me with the deadened eyes through the black mask, I reckoned him as the more aggressive one, the one I´d have to watch out for. Next to him, on top of the desk, almost hidden by a black gym bag, I noticed an open beer can. Then my eyes were drawn to the man tied to the canopied bed.

He was lying on his stomach, spread-eagled, his ankles and wrists tightly secured to the bedposts with smooth hemp rope that drew his body taut and left him utterly powerless. He was completely naked except for another black leather hood, but this one was more elaborate than the others. It fastened tightly in place with a belt around his neck, and it included a snap-on blindfold and an efficient leather belt gag with either an extra large or inflatable rubber ball that completely filled up his mouth, judging by the pitiful, muffled groans he was fighting to let out. The muscles of his back flexed as the blinded man vainly struggled to free himself, and there were signs of rope burn already as he alternatively bunched his hands into fists and then tried to reach out with extended fingers, searching for leverage or help that couldn´t be found. He looked uncommonly agitated, giving the impression of being truly afraid, and I glanced questioningly at the two tops.

“He´s good, isn´t he?” the one who had paid me said.

The man in the bed was in good shape and clearly worked out regularly, but I pegged him between fifty and sixty years old, whereas the two men were probably the same age as Angelo, in their early thirties. The setup made me wonder if the two men were in fact my colleagues.

“Want something to drink?” the beer guzzler asked, and picked up a can from the bag. He threw it at me, without waiting for an answer, and I caught the can in midair. It was a popular energy drink I liked, and I popped the lid open and took a sip.

The words had an alarming effect on the captive. Realizing I had arrived, he began squirming frantically, choking on the gag as he repeatedly tried to shout. Again, I looked at the men, and they smiled at me smugly. I turned back to the slave, and watching him fight the bondage I sipped at the drink, letting my hard-on grow until it visibly tented my cammies and I had to unzip them. Even behind their masks I could tell the men were impressed by what they saw.

“We´d like you to fuck him bareback. For extra.”

I inhaled sharply. “Sorry, guys. I´d like to, but that´s just something I don´t do.”

“That´s OK,” the more talkative one responed. “But we want you to come inside him, even if you´re using a condom.”

“That I can do,” I said, setting down the drink and pulling off my t-shirt. “Do you want to see him take my cock down his throat first?”

“No, we just want you to fuck him,” the one next to the drawer said, and turned to his bag. “But first you have to open him up.”

He pulled out a spectacular chromed dildo with massively ribbed shaft, and a bottle of lube. I had stripped off all my clothes now, and the man gestured me to climb on the bed between the spread legs of the man. The victim went into another fit of convulsions when he felt my weight settle on the bed behind him, and, smiling, the hooded topman handed the dildo over to me. It felt cold and heavy, and at close range the shaft seemed disproportionately thick. Unless the captive was accustomed to something that size it would take a long time and a lot of effort to work it in, and it would be painful.

The prop master snapped open the transparent bottle of lube. I expected him to slowly rub the thick liquid into his slave´s ass, and then play a little, slip in a finger or two to tease the man´s prostate and make him squirm, perhaps while lubing up my hard-on with his other hand. Instead, he simply poured the liquid between the man´s cheeks, and stepped back to watch the effect it had on him. Now the man was fighting even harder than before against the restraints, but it only helped the lube to seep deeper in between his buttocks and as he felt the touch of the slick liquid on his anus his whole body went rigid, and he let out another choked whimper, shaking his head. With one hand, I spread his asscheeks, and nudged the tight little opening with the blunt head of the dildo. Watching the man struggle had made my cock so hard it was starting to ache from within, and I felt an early drop of precum force its way along my pisstube. A glistening bead of liquid appeared on the tip of my cock, grew in size, and in slow motion dropped between the man´s legs.

“Wait,” the more muscular man said. “I really want to see you fuck him. Do you mind?”

He stepped next to me, and lifted the dildo from my hands. I gave it to him, naturally, but now I was getting a little annoyed by the inaptitude of the two. There was also the consideration of putting on a good show to ensure they´d call me again, and so far the scene had been remarkably dull except for the captive´s performance. So I picked up a condom, and made sure they noticed how difficult the girth of my dick made the task of slipping it on. Once ready, I slapped the man´s glistening asscheeks with my hard-on a few times, to lube up the rubber, while forcing a finger into him to seek out his prostate. He was very tight, fighting my entry, but when I reached the goal the clenched ring of muscle suddenly loosened up, and I instantly took advantage of the fact and slipped in a second finger. Then I couldn´t wait any longer. I grabbed the root of my shaft with one hand and pointed it at the opening, and began the penetration, very slowly, enjoying the tightness and heat engulfing my cock. The man let out muffled, throaty whimpers, and his body opened up to me. I slipped in all the way. For a moment, I stayed still to savor him, and to allow him to adjust to my size, and when I felt him start to relax I began the fuck.

Almost immediately, the more muscular topman moved to my side.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.

“Sure,” I grunted. Finally things were going right.

He stepped behind me, and I felt his strong gloved hands grip my trapezius muscles and start to massage them. I reached out and took his left hand, bringing it down to cup my pectoral and tease the nipple. He did it for a while, unenthusiastically, then pulled his hand back and continued with my shoulders. I restrained myself from making a face, aware that his friend was watching, and decided to give up on the two and focus on the man I was fucking. He had stopped squirming, and I could feel him start to respond to my long, slow thrusts.

“Are you close to coming?” the man behind me asked.

I felt an urge to turn and slap his face, hard. “Already?”

“I want to see you come,” he murmured. “To fill that scumbag.”

If that´s what you want, I thought, completely put off by his manner. They were paying me so well it didn´t matter if this was just a one off job. I picked up speed, hoping he´d stop massaging my shoulders as his touch had become truly annoying. Then I realized he wasn´t enjoying it either, and that he really didn´t know how to touch a man, nor was he familiar with men´s bodies. I knew the kind, a bisexual married man with little or no experience on the subject. Most often the clumsiness was endearing - and they learned fast - but this one I judged a lost cause, among those who even kept compulsively rubbing me between the balls and the anus, unable to kick the habit, as if that was where the pleasure lay for a man as well. Or perhaps they were afraid to actually touch men´s genitals, I didn’t know; there was no way to ask one politely why they were such incompetent lovers. In any case, I was now glad that this one was limiting himself to my shoulders.

So the whole setup made no sense, unless the sub intentionally sought out straight thugs to rough him up, and a gay one to actually fuck him as the others weren´t up to it. Theoretically it made sense, but my instincts told me something was wrong with the scenario. The details didn´t add up. My annoyance began to turn into preoccupation and I decided I needed to finish the job as soon as possible and get the hell out of the house. I picked up speed and tried to muster a fantasy that would do the trick, but believing me close to coming the man moved his left hand to my gay buttock and squeezed. It felt as if he were checking out a loaf of bread at a bakery, instantly postponing my orgasm, and I removed the hand as gently as I could, under the circumstances. I closed my eyes, and conjured images of Jan in the place of the tied up client, which worked wonders. I groaned out loud to let the men know what was happening, and let go. My pleasure was as faked as the thug´s caresses, and when I was done and he wrapped his arms around me from behind I almost shuddered.

“Pull it out,” he coaxed me. “I want to see.”

I complied. The slave went silent, pressing his head against the mattress in sign of abject fear, his body shaking, as I slowly slipped out of him.

“Very good,” the thug said as he saw the full condom.

His embrace became tighter, and when I made a move to step out of the bed he suddenly squeezed me hard, forcing the air out of my lungs.

“Now,” he said as I tried to throw myself sideways to break his grip, and I now realized the other man had moved out of my sight towards the end of the fuck.

A foul-smelling rag was pushed to my face. I fought to free myself but the man holding me was too strong, and in seconds the room turned into a blur. I flailed inefficiently as my muscles lost all their strength and he set me down on the bed, and then darkness fell and I slept.