The Italian Boy Soprano

by ChrisCross

Copyright© 2018 by ChrisCross

Erotica Sex Story: Alessandro, a small, beautiful-bodied, fourteen-year-old boy with a heavenly soprano singing voice, feels he lacks life and feeling in a Tuscan village from his widowed father, absent on weekends and drunk most of the time, and the strict, nonpersonal control by choir masters. His response on Saturdays is to seek the attention of men. From the village baker, to the region's aristocratic count, to a hunky young farmer, Alessandro manages to find the attention he thinks he needs.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt   Consensual   Gay   Fiction   Farming   Incest   Son   MaleDom   Anal Sex   Analingus   Cream Pie   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   .

At not quite 8:00 in the morning in the piazza, the town square, of the Tuscan seaside town of Piombino, a door beside the windows of a bakery opened and a beautiful young blue-eyed, golden-blond Italian boy of fourteen, Alessandro, emerged and stood at the threshold. Luigi, the baker whose apartment to which the stairs in the hallway behind this door led, appeared in the doorway close behind Alessandro. He placed a hand on the boy’s waist and looked up and down the street and around the piazza, and, satisfied, drew the boy to him and gave him a kiss on the lips, before Alessandro stepped out into the piazza and Baker Luigi moved to the bakery door and went inside, during the sign in the window from “closed” to “open.”

The boy stood, looking around him for a moment before moving off. He was small of stature but perfectly formed. He was a willowy lad, a hint of a strong chest to be developed, eventually, if he caught on to the normal “sprouting up” phase of puberty, but his chest tapering down to a tiny waist and practically no hips at all. He was bare-chested, wearing just a pair of shorts and sandals on his bare feet. His hips were so narrow that the unbelted shorts hung dangerously low on them, challenged by gravity.

Baker Luigi had assumed that the kiss had not been seen, but it had been. Across the square, sitting alone that early in the morning and drinking coffee under the awning of the village square café, was a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties who was elegantly and impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, with vest and tie. The patrician-aspected elderly man had been closely surveying life in the piazza as the sun rose behind the vineyard-covered slopes to the east and reflected on the water of the town’s harbor, visible here and there down cobble-stoned streets. It was quiet in the piazza. The appearance of the baker was the first sign of life in what would be a bustling square in another hour. The atmosphere was in that electric “about to come alive” phase just before bustling village-business activity broke out.

The Conte di Paulo di Vittoria enjoyed the solitude of the piazza early on a Saturday morning in late spring. Even more he enjoyed observing the appearance of the “ragazzo prezioso—precious boy,” Alessandro, son of the ne’er-do-well, sometimes fisherman, the widower Guido. The elderly man was not surprised to see the boy emerging from Luigi’s upper-story flat, or the possessive way the baker touched the boy, as he would not have been surprised to know that the boy had arrived there late the previous evening. The conte knew everything that happened in the village and among the people his family had once owned.

The conte willed the boy to walk around the piazza, past the café, and Alessandro did so. As Alessandro came abreast of the conte, sitting at a café table just under the awning, Paulo tapped the tip of his gold-headed cane on the underfoot stone of the piazza and Alessandro turned his face toward the café. At the sight of the conte, tall, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, slim, his auburn hair barely graying at the temples, and his handsome face dominated at first by his noble Roman nose and then, upon closer inspection, by the fine line of a fencing scar running from his right earlobe to the corner of his full-lipped mouth, Alessandro smiled shyly. The conte tapped the chair across from him at the table, and Alessandro came under the awning and sat in the chair.

“I am happy to see you Alessandro,” Paulo said. “I heard you sing at the mass on Sunday last and I wanted to tell you that your voice was angelic. You sing so high. Ethereal.”

“Thank you, Patrono,” Alessandro murmured, looking down shyly at his hands.

“Would you like something to drink, Alessandro? Coffee or tea? It perhaps is too early for something sweeter.”

“Coffee would be very nice, Patrono. Thank you. You are too kind.”

The conte snapped his fingers and service was instantaneous. A bill would never arrive, though. The conte was the patron of the village and all of the surrounding land sloping up to his own vineyards just below Grosetto. At one time the Vittoria’s owned everything and everyone in this region. Now they mostly underwrote the economy and stood for the model of success.

“Are your studies going well, Alessandro?”

“Yes, Patrono, very well, thank you. Thank you for paying my tuition.”

“You know that you don’t have to do anything for me just because I pay for your schooling.”

“Yes, Patrono, I understand. Thank you for sending me to school.”

“I understand that you go to Rome—to the Vatican—for the boys’ choir and further schooling in a few months.”

“Yes, Patrono.”

“When you are fifteen?”

“Yes, Patrono. I will be fifteen in September.”

“I will continue paying your fees there too.”

“Thank you, Patrono. You are very generous. I owe you much.”

“And you are still living with your father, Guido, now?”

“Yes, Patrono.”

“I understand that he continued to go to your nonna, his mother, on the weekends, to fish the sea for her in her boat.” Most likely to ask her for money and to spend the time in a Dobetelio taverna, the conte thought to himself.

“Yes, Patrono. He went to Dobetelio yesterday afternoon and will be back tomorrow evening.”

“And so you are alone again—for the weekend.”

“Yes, Patrono.”

“I have a picnic in the car. As usual, I am sure the kitchen has made me far more than I can eat. Would you like to drive up to my vineyard with me to see how the grapes are doing and help with some pruning? You would like to learn the right way to prune grape vines, wouldn’t you? I will pay you for your service, of course. And you could share my meal. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“Yes, I would like to go with you and serve you, Patrono. No I have not eaten breakfast yet, patron. Baker Luigi told me come to the bakery when the morning rolls were out of the oven. He will give me rolls and coffee if I go to him.”

I’m quite sure that’s not all he’s given you, the conte thought, and I am sure he hopes to have a respite with you up in his apartment after you have eaten his rolls and coffee, just as he’s had with you all night. The image of the baker rolling in bed with the boy or the paunchy baker lying on his back and the boy saddled on his hips, riding his cock, floated through the conte’s mind, and he felt himself going hard. It brought to his mind when he was a boy of fourteen and rode the hips of his schoolmaster. Many a blond boy had ridden his first cock at that age in this village. The conte was not asking for anything that hadn’t been the practice down through the ages.

He had a moment of introspection. Was he any better than the baker in this urge? No, but he didn’t have second thoughts about the boy, either. He was of age in Italy and he seemed quite definite about his decisions. He was virtually abandoned by his father, his mother long passed. No other close relatives in the village. If the conte weren’t paying for the boy’s upbringing in various ways, no one would be.

Still, there was something he could say about doing it with a baker. The man was a pig. But he did not say it. “I’m sure the kitchen has prepared something far more interesting than bakery rolls, Alessandro. Will you drive up into the vineyard with me?”

“Did you bring the sports car?” The boy’s interest was piqued.

“Yes, I brought the Lamborghini Murcielago. Would you like to ride in that?” He knew Alessandro would want to ride in it; that was why he had brought it.

“Yes, Patrono, very much.”

“Well, drink up your coffee and we’ll be off.” Paulo reached over and placed a hand on the boy’s bare knee. Alessandro neither flinched nor drew away.

“You are a beautiful boy, Alessandro. A bella, bella boy.”

“Thank you, Patrono.” Of course Alessandro knew what this ride up to the vineyard was all about.

The sun hadn’t reached its zenith when Paulo called for a respite, the pruning having been half-hearted and more a background for seductive discourse as he stood behind Alessandro, his arms around him and manipulating the boys hands to show him how best to prune the grape vines.

He guided the boy back to the edge of a vine row, where he had left the food hamper and fanned out a blanket on the ground under a tree, where a section of the vineyard made way for an olive orchard.

“Help me to unpack the basket, Alessandro, and we will see what the kitchen has made up for us.”

Alessandro did so, and his eyes went large at all of the delicacies that were revealed. There were several bottles of wine in ice packs, uncorked, ready for tasting. Paulo sat patiently, watching, with aching desire, the boy wolf down his choice of the delicacies on offer. When the boy was satisfied and lay back on the blanket with a smile on his face, Paulo emitted a merry laugh. He took one of the chilled bottles of wine and handed Alessandro another one—there were far more there than they could hope to drink off. There was no suggestion that Alessandro was not old enough to be drinking the wine.

Paulo had taken off his suitcoat, vest, and tie and had unbuttoned his silk shirt half way down before they had moved to prune the vines. Tuffs of salt-and-pepper hair curled out of the gap in his shirt, revealing him to be a hirsute man. He was wearing tailored slacks, but he had taken his shoes and socks off, saying that a man wanted to feel the earth under him in his own vineyard. He had urged Alessandro to shed his sandals for the same reason, and the boy had done so.

The conte leaned against a tree and saluted Alessandro with the bottle before drinking directly from it in a long gulp. Even when swigging from a wine bottle he looked the product of centuries of Italian aristocracy. His lean body was constantly in languid motion.

Alessandro saluted him back and took a long drink from the bottle he’d been given. The wine was refreshing and smooth, with a slight kick to it at the end—just the thing to top a half hour of intense concentration on learning a skill of working a vineyard, followed by a heavenly feast.

Paulo was grinning at Alessandro, swaying his torso, and aching for the “ragazzo prezioso,” the precious boy. Alessandro was fourteen, on the cusp of being a man, but not yet a man. Smooth, supple, innocent looking, although the conte knew Alessandro not to be innocent in fact. Paulo had known Alessandro not to be innocent before. He had known the boy, biblically, several times before. He had taken him without guilt, as his right as the Patrono of the region, just as he had been taken at fourteen, by right, by his tutor. It was the way of his world.

But the boy was still beautiful, still fresh, and yielding, oh so willing and yielding, lost in some sort of fantasy that what men wanted to do with him was just the attention that he needed and craved as well, the attention he didn’t get at home or school. There was no question what the boy would do for him. That was part of the magnetism of laying with the boy—his yielding nature, his ability to open to the touch, lay himself out, open and vulnerable, and to be so yielding as he was penetrated and ridden.

If the conte had thought he needed to play the school fees to get inside the boy, he would have done so, but the boy obviously didn’t need that to lie on his back and open his legs for him. The boy had a sense for the traditions of the area and the nature of the customs here for navigating puberty and gaining maturity and experience.

“Alessandro. Will you stand and come to me now? Will you be my beautiful boy? I wish to be with you now.”

The boy looked up at the conte, smiled, and said, “Yes, of course, Patrono.”

“You know what I am asking?”

“Yes, Patrono. You want to lie on top of me, you want to metterla in me—to put it in me, and be inside me. That’s what I want too.” Teasingly, though, the boy didn’t rise and walk to the tree. Rather he leaned back on his elbows in the grass just inside and between the row of vines, spread and bent his legs, and placed his feet flat on the ground, looking provocatively up at Paulo. The boy wanted to maintain some control, to show that he had some power of his own. He wanted Paulo to come to him to worship his body and to possess it.

“Yes, I want to lie on top of you and be inside you. It’s cool here under the tree, Alessandro. You look like you are hot there under the sun. You need to be cooled down. Come to me, son.” The atmosphere was tense. A bit of a battle of wills had emerged. The conte, the adult, knew it was his responsibility to resolve the issue. He wasn’t about to give over power to the boy.

Impulsively, Paulo pushed off from the tree, walked over to boy, and upended the wine bottle in front of his face, watching the dark red fluid cascading down the boy’s lithe torso, staining his cotton shorts, and plastering them to his pelvis. The boy was in erection. So was the conte.

At first Alessandro looked shocked, and then he laughed, stood, and upended his own bottle of wine over the front of the conte’s silk shirt and tailored linen trousers.

Laughing, Paulo grabbed the boy, pushed him roughly against the olive tree where its two main branches split and brutally attacked the boy’s mouth with his own. Paulo unbuttoned the boy’s shorts and, soaked with wine, they fell to the ground. Alessandro was pulling at the conte’s clothes, Paulo helped him complete the task, and in short order they were naked and writhing against each other on the ground between the vine rows.

Alessandro’s mouth hungrily went to the conte’s hirsute chest and found his wine-cooled nipples. A hand went to Alessandro’s crotch and almost lifted his lithe little body off the ground as Paulo cupped the boy’s pert but hard dick in his searching hands. Alessandro arched his head back, and Paulo was sucking the wine from Alessandro’s nipples. His tongue and lips then made their wine-tasting journey down the boy’s chest and belly. When his mouth reached and closed over the boy’s cock, Alessandro leaned back into the crook of the olive tree, his small, lithe torso setting into a swaying motion. The boy sighed and moaned for the man, as Paolo took full, commanding possession of Alessandro’s cock.

“Fottere me patrono. Metterla in me. Chiavata me—Fuck me, Patrono. Put it in me. Screw me,” Alessandro whispered.

Not heeding the boy, showing him who was boss, taking his time, Paulo sucked Alessandro to the boy’s ejaculation.

When the boy had come, Paolo took him by the hand, raised him up, and led him over to the spread blanket, warming in the olive tree-branch dappled sunlight of the strong Tuscan sun. Paolo sat on the blanket, his legs stretched out in front of him. He then pulled Alessandro down close beside him, hip to hip at first, but he pulled the boy’s torso over, across his chest, to where Alessandro’s shoulder blades nestled against Paolo’s chest and the curly golden-blond hair on top of the boys head was tickling Paolo under his chin.

The conte leaned over and plucked a long strand of oat grass that had found life between the rows of the vine stands. Paolo encircled Alessandro’s waist with one arm, his palm fanned out on the boy’s lower belly, and, with the other hand, he took the long, thick strand of grass and ran it across Alessandro’s chest and thighs and cock and balls. The perpetual undulating motion of his torso and legs matched the tracings of the grass on his beautiful little body, and, at length, with deep sighs, he turned his face to Paolo’s and they kissed deeply, their tongues finding each other, their sweet, wine-infused juices joining together.

Alessandro pulled his mouth away to briefly begged again, “Prego, patrono. Prego Metterla in me—Please, Patrono. Please put it in me.”

While they kissed, Alessandro moved one of his thighs up until it was on top of Paolo’s. The slowness of the preparation was excruciating, but it was highly arousing. The conte wanted to go to the heights of arousal even before tasting of the fruit. The nearness and suppleness of the boy was intoxicating, and the motion of his body against the strand of grass was mesmerizing. Paolo pulled the boy farther up into his lap until the boy’s body was fully on top of the man, sitting in Paolo’s lap. The conte’s long, hard, thick cock was running up the small of the boy’s back, telling Alessandro precisely what the conte wanted and that he couldn’t wait much longer before he got it.

“Fottere me—Fuck me,” the boy whined.

The boy’s back was in languid motion as well, so he was making love to Paolo’s cock, rubbing the small of his back across it. He was making humming noises, and his body was trembling as well as moving. Alessandro raised his arm around the back of Paolo’s neck, bringing their lips together. They kissed tenderly, and then Paolo looked deeply into the boy’s eyes.

“Nwo. Ora ti fottero—I will fuck now,” Paolo whispered.

“Si. Nwo, patrono—Yes, now, Patrono,” Alessandro answered huskily.

“Ora ti fottero duro—I will fuck you hard. The time for softness is past.”

“Si, prega di fare NWO patrono—Yes, please do, NOW, Patrono.”

The conte grabbed Alessandro’s slim hips, raised his pelvis up, placed the boy’s entrance on the throbbing bulb of his cock, and pulled the boy’s channel onto it. The passage slowly sank down the shaft, sheathing it. The boy cried out and writhed, but his cry was one of want. Paolo lifted the boy’s hips up and slammed them down and then again and again. Alessandro buried his feet in the ground next to Paolo’s hips and took over the rise and fall for a while, but, eventually, Paolo lost all control, rolled over on top of the boy, slapped his thighs apart, thrust up inside him in the grass between the two rows of vines, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked.

Later, as Alessandro was standing under the running hose of a spigot, washing the residue of the wine and of the conte’s cum off his body, Paolo saddled up behind him, lifted the boy’s feet off the ground, set him down on the conte’s new-found erection, and fucked him again. Throwing his arms back and locking his fists behind the older man’s neck, Paolo arched his back and pushed back with his hips, meeting the conte thrust for thrust.

They obviously weren’t finished for the day. Paolo sank to the ground on his back, bringing the boy down with him and on top of him, still with the conte’s long, thick cock up inside him. The boy started his hips in an undulating rhythm above the prone Paolo, rising and falling on the buried cock, alternating with rotations of his hips, fucking himself on the conte’s throbbing cock. The boy’s ass canal walls, like his torso, were in perpetual motion, making love to Paolo’s cock in wave after wave of caressing clutching and releasing as it churned inside him.

Paolo was loving this, but he also wanted to still and tame the boy’s body, he wanted to feel the boy at peace with his life. Paolo slowly rolled the boy’s body so that he was belly down on the blanket, and Paolo was covering him completely from above, the man’s thighs holding those of the boy close between them, Paolo’s nipples gouging into the boy’s shoulder blades, the conte’s arms stretched on top of boy’s arms, their fingers entwined, Paolo’s pelvis churning around on the boy’s plump butt cheeks.

Alessandro’s torso quieted down, stopped its perpetual motion, but his hips were still in motion, a little elevated and rotating in countermotion to Paolo’s downward stroking deep inside him, in the son of Tuscany, with the master’s pulsating cock. The blanket under them had bunched up so that their pelvises were directly atop the rich Italian soil of the hillside. Alessandro’s hard little dick was stroking along the surface of the mossy grass, fucking the fertile earth of Tuscany.

Two sons of Tuscany, one an older man, one a young boy, building up to breeding the soil of their ancient homeland.

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