Matthew Finney—the name he had hastily taken from his collection of false passports—Stood in the frame of the window of the Pulitzer Hotel near the Gay Village in Rome on the Via San Giovanni in Laterano and took a drag on his cigarette as he looked out at the fingers of dawn playing on the Tiber River across the Via Ostiense from the hotel. He looked back at the hotel bed where the fourteen-year-old boy, Guido, lay, all stretched out, naked and vulnerable—and well worked. Guido’s eyes were wide in awe and sexual exhaustion. They followed Matthew’s naked figure move around in the hotel room, wondering what came next—and whether it would take him to heaven or hell.

Using a beautiful boy like Guido was all the more satisfying for Matthew as he’d thought he’d been run to ground back in Miami and that his time with boys was up. He supposed they’d catch on eventually but they had had him by the short hairs just now. He could think of this time in Italy as a bit of a respite, and extension on the freedom he had to pursue his fetish.

As he watched the eyes of beautiful, perfectly formed boy close to the sleep of the exhausted, he reached down and took his cock in his hand where he was leaning into the full-length window frame. He stroked himself to another erection.

Opening the window a crack, he flicked his half-smoked cigarette out into what remained of the night. He moved back to the bed and reached down, putting his hands on the sleeping Guido and turning the boy onto his back.

The boy stirred, murmuring, “Di nuovo? Non di nuovo?”

“Yes, again. I’ve paid you well,” Finney said. “Suck me.” He turned and pulled the boy’s body down to the foot of the bed, arching Guido’s head over the foot of the mattress. Positioning himself before the boy’s face, he opened Guido’s jaw up with his fingers and slid his cock in between them. The boy gagged, but he took the cock in a deep throating while Finney pressed his shoulders to the mattress with his hands on Guido’s shoulders.

When he felt sufficiently serviced that way, Finney drew back, picked the boy up like he was as light as a feather, and reversed him again and pulled him up onto the bed on his side. He raised the boy’s right leg and turned him so that Guido’s hole, gapping open from earlier use, was exposed. Finney’s tongue went to the hole and Finney invested a few minutes into reaming the boy with his tongue, as Guido panted and moaned, slowly coming back into full consciousness.

Moving behind him and stretching his body along the contours of the small boy, Finney worried Guido’s hole by rubbing the underside of his erection over the opening. The boy was panting hard. “Give me your hole. Show me how open you are.”

With a groan, the Italian boy reached back with and spread his pert little buttocks cheeks with his fingers, pressing into his anal opening with the thumbs and stretching himself open. He gave a little gasp and a huff, as Finney positioned his cockhead at the spread hole and, reaching around with his left hand, palming the boy’s belly and pulling Guido’s passage onto his thick erection. His right hand went to the long hair on the back of the boy’s head, his fingers sinking in to get a good grip, and he arched the boy’s head and back painfully to his chest.

The boy moaned as Finney moved up inside him and began the fuck. Guido writhed and panted as the man, in great shape for a man pushing thirty-five, hung, and virile, picked up intensity, fucked the boy hard and creamed him with prodigious shots of cum deep up into the boy’s soft core.

The Guidos of the world—fourteen, still nubile and flexible, with the budding needs and wants of a man but the equipment, innocence, willowy smallness of a boy, with a soft, tight passage—were what Finney lived for. It also was what had gotten him into trouble in the States.

Luckily, he’d seen the tightening of the noose coming, and even more fortuitously he’d received the opportunity to at least extend his fetish with boys. He hadn’t been in the Miami Beach high-rise condo he owned an apartment in when it suddenly collapsed, pancaked down into a pile of rubble in the middle of the night without warning. He was known to own a condo there—in the part of the tower that had collapsed. The assumption was that he’d been home. He hadn’t been. He’d been in a South Beach male brothel, having his way with a fourteen-year-old Cuban boy. Luckily, he kept his spare identify passports somewhere other than his Miami condo and he’d salted money away in off-shore accounts.

He had at least a head start. He’d known they had been closing in on him. He’d planned to escape anyway. The collapse of the condo tower was bad luck for his neighbors, but it had been manna from heaven for him.

Italy had been a natural destination, leaving from Atlanta by the afternoon the tower had fallen. He’d taken a circuitous route in the airways to get to Rome. It was a natural place for him to at least start out. The age of consent here was fourteen.

Guido had consented. It was clear how much he’d consented to, though,

Daylight was streaming into the window when Finney nudged the boy awake again.

“Di nuovo? Non di nuovo?” Guido murmured, his voice laced with both sleepiness and exhaustion.

“Yes, again,” Finney demanded. “Ride me.” The man lay on his back on the bed, and Guido moved over him, settling on his midsection, facing the man’s feet, and gasping and panting as he descended on the thick erection. Finney bent his legs, placing his feet flat on the mattress.

“Feet on my knees,” he commanded. “And arms raised, hands grasping the headboard rail.” Guido complied, hovering his body over Finney’s, his shoulder blades pressing into the man’s chest, his hands grasping the top rail of the headboard behind them. Finney grasped the boy’s narrow waist between his hands to help the rise and fall on the cock. But most of the rise and fall would be provided by the boy. “Fuck yourself,” Finney demanded, and, panting and moaning low, the boy began yet another taking of the cock.

The boy was good, but he was going to be wiped out. Finney was paying him well, though. And this was all legal here in Rome. Rome even accommodated this. It was just the long arm of American law Matthew Finney—as he would be known now—had to be careful of.

Matthew remained in Rome only long enough to complete the purchase of an Alfa Romeo Spider sports car. That done, he was off, north, along the coast. The gay district hotel he’d stayed in had been very accommodating to his needs. The concierge gave him pointers on seaside towns and villages, hotels, and restaurants up the coast from Rome along the Tyrrhenian Sea that catered to his fetish. Fourteen was the age of consent here, so he had no reticence in speaking of mid-teen boys and, in any event, the hotel staff was aware of the ages of the boys he had taken to his room during his stay in Rome.

Driving up the Via Ansedonia, he entered a seaside town that had been on the list, Castiglione della Pescala, which straddled the mouth of a river, providing a long quay area with boat slips. He stopped here, recognizing the name of a recommended hotel overlooking the harbor area that had been established along the riverside. The Hotel L’Approcolo proved to be all that the concierge at the Pulitzer Hotel in Rome had promised. As he was entering the hotel, he spied a boy—very likely in the fourteen-year-old age group—setting tables at a street café. The boy, a blond, gave him the eye and a knowing smile as Matthey entered the hotel, as did another comely, dark-haired boy of the same age group who passed by him and boarded a fishing boat docked nearby. That boy was handed into the boat by a robust man in his thirties, and Matthew saw them kiss as the man brought the boy on board.

Matthew felt confident that he had come to the right village to escape his pursuers and to pursue his fetish pleasures for as long as he could. And he was right in that. At the reception desk, the clerk, assessing Matthew correctly, called to a teenage boy, “Take Mr. Finney’s suitcase up to room 506, Salvatore, and make sure he has what he needs.”

What Matthew needed just then was to lay a fourteen-year-old boy. The ones who had given him the eye when he entered the hotel had gotten his juices going. The boy he encountered in the hotel, the bellhop who showed him to his room, Salvatore, fulfilled his needs. When the boy had been around the room, opening curtains to the balcony overlooking the river and making sure the taps in the bathroom were working and turned and, giving Matthew a saucy smile, said, “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Finney? Vuoi qualcosa di più?—Anything you want at all?” and extended his hand to accept a very (very!) generous tip, Finney turned the boy to the bed, bent him over the mattress, pulled Salvatore’s shorts down, and feasted a bit. When ready, he unleashed his engorged manhood, and mounted, penetrated, and fucked the willing fourteen-year-old bellhop.

Afterward, the bellhop was very helpful, giving Matthew some descriptions and names and, having been given some more incentive money, agreed to pass Mathew’s interests around to his fourteen-year-old friends.

When he was alone, Matthew pulled on shorts and padded out to the balcony his room opened onto. A pair of binoculars conveniently came with the room, and while he smoked, he trained them on the activity in the harbor area below. Just below the hotel façade, he saw Salvatore, the bellhop, come out to the café where the comely blond lad had been laying tables and had exchanged a smile with Matthew when he had arrived at the hotel. The lad looked up to where Matthew stood on the upper-story balcony and waved. Matthew waved back. There was one. That’s where Matthew would have dinner and maybe start his evening.

He swept the area with the binoculars and stopped at the boat, tied up to the quay just opposite the hotel entrance, where he’d seen another gorgeous boy, dark against the blond of the boy at the café, board the boat and share a kiss with the burly sailor who had met him there. There was a sign board on the quay next to the boat, and Matthew was able to see that it advertised boat trips out onto the Tyrrhenian Sea. Taking a closer look at the boat, he could see into the cabin window and watch the sailor fucking the dark-haired boy who had caught Matthew’s attention when he’d arrived.

Matthew had a sudden urge to engage the boat and its man and boy crew to take a sail on the sea. Yes, indeed, he thought, Castiglione della Pescala promised to be a very good place to hide out for a while.

As darkness descended over the harbor, Matthew lounged on the hotel balcony, watching evening take over the Castiglione della Pescala harbor area below. There was a guitarist playing at the café next to the hotel, which put him into a mellow mood, pulling him out of the worry of where he was in life—what he was running away from and the chances that he could remain free, doing what he wanted. He’d already made his fortune. All that had remained was taking his pleasure. Unfortunately, his pleasure wasn’t legal in the States. It was here. Perhaps he should have come here immediately upon knowing what he wanted. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to remain in Miami and enjoy his fetish there.

The guitar music lured him downstairs—not just that, though, his hunger as well. And not just his hunger for food.

He went down to the café and was seated by an older, heavy Italian man who acted like he owned the place, and perhaps he did. The guitarist turned out to be a very handsome young man, whose eyes picked out Matthew as soon as he entered the covered patio of the restaurant and who smiled suggestively at the American. Matthew smiled back, but he didn’t put any suggestion of sexual interest in the smile. The man was beautiful and sexy looking, and the music he was playing had turned sensual when Matthew entered the café, but he was well into his twenties. He wasn’t Matthew’s fetish. If he’d been bigger of stature, more muscular, a part of Matthew would have been aroused by him. Matthew covered boys, but there were some men Matthew fantasized about covering him, although he did what he could to suppress those feelings. But, no, the guitarist was a man looking for a top.

Not long after Matthew had been seated and a waiter had taken his drink and food order, the boy Matthew had exchanged smiles with earlier, the one who maybe did fulfill his fetish—the one who certainly looked like he would—delivered Matthew’s meal. He brought a bottle of wine and two glasses as well. Matthew made an assumption of what this meant; invited the boy to sit and share wine with him, if that was permitted; and started to go hard when the boy sat and poured out two glasses of wine.

The boy was small, but perfectly formed. He was blond, as many Italians were, descended no doubt from the Visigoths who had sacked Rose and left their seed in Italian women who had not been able to escape their attentions while they were “visiting.” He wore his hair long, tied off in a ponytail while he was on duty, providing Matthew with the melting image of untying it, running his hands through it as it fell to the boy’s shoulders and as the boy descended back onto a bed with Matthew’s body following him down.

“Perfavore mangia—Please, eat,” the boy said. “I am Matteo. You are American, I think. Salvatore told me you were. I thought you would never come down to eat. You must be affamato—hungry.”

“There are different forms of hunger,” Matthew said. The boy laughed. He gestured for Matthew to pick up his fork and eat the pasta meal, which the man did, with relish, making suggestive movements with his lips and fork that the boy watched attentively.

“My name is Mattew too,” he said. “Doesn’t Matteo mean Matthew in Italian?”

“Sì—Yes. We could be one.”

“I would like that,” Matthew said, wondering if the boy would understand. His low laugh and coy smile indicated he did.

“Salvatore told me about you,” he said. “He told me what he offered to you—what you did with him. That you paid him well for it.”

“How old are you, Matteo?”

“I am fourteen—the same as Salvatore is. He said that’s what you wanted. But if you want older or younger—”

“No, fourteen is perfect, Matteo,” Matthew said. “You are perfect.” He put a hand on the boy’s knee under the table and then gave a little jerk when the boy, in turn, cupped his basket and rubbed his cock through the material. Matthew raised his hand to the back of Matteo’s neck. He loosed the band holding the boy’s ponytail, and the hair cascaded to Matteo’s shoulder. The look the two exchanged made clear the symbolism of this freeing.

Matthew opened his wallet and took a wad of euros. He had no idea how much he put down in 100-euro notes. He had access to plenty of money—as long as the feds didn’t find it. “When do you go off duty? Will you go with me?”