Ian counted off the steps after Sergio strutted off onto the runway on the annual House of Spelling children’s fashion show in Rome before, keeping an eye on Sergio’s butt, he too walked out onto the raised walkway. The fourteen-year-old model minced his way to the top of the T to murmurs of approval and delight from the audience and the clicking of the cameras and moved out to the left arm, waiting for Sergio to do his turn at the end of the right arm and walk back, with Ian following in Sergio’s wake in the strut to the exit curtains.

The two boys, the Italian model Sergio two years older than the American Ian, were both wearing skimpy bathing trunks, with flashy beach robes slung over their shoulders. Both boys, Ian reddish blond and Sergio, sultry dark, were beautiful boys as befitted being fashion models. In Ian’s case, he also was the son of Edith Spelling, the head of the House of Spelling, designer of fashionable and expensive children’s wear, with whom he lived in Rome and attended the American Overseas School of Rome. Although Americans and returning to the States often enough to keep their American identity, the Spellings lived in Rome, and had done so since Ian was six.

There was no father; At some point Edith wanted to experience motherhood and she made all of the arrangements without requiring commitment or physical participation. At least that’s what she had told Ian. She’d had enough short-term lovers that one of them may have been more of a donor than she had admitted to. She had found that motherhood wasn’t thrilling, though, so Ian’s leash had never been short. She had continued to have a succession of boyfriends, some of whom found the beautiful, small, reddish-blood, perfectly formed Ian as compelling as they found Edith, so, even at fourteen, Ian’s experience was rather broad.

Half way through his fourteenth year, Ian no longer was a virgin to anal sex and had received experience from a variety of men.

His experience wasn’t as sordid and deep as that of sixteen-year-old Sergio, however, who attended the rival Rome International School on a sports scholarship. Sergio was a rising soccer star. He had spent years on the streets of Rome before being identified as such, though, had some unsavory connections in the underworld, and was world wise beyond his years. He also was achingly sexy.

He could be counted among the males who had laid Ian already.

There was an interval scheduled after Sergio and Ian had left the runway to set up for school designs for younger children. As Ian came through the curtains to the backstage, he felt a hand grip his wrist and he was pulled down a backstage corridor into a remote costume room not in use for the show changing needs, and behind a rack of clothes. Sergio put the younger boy’s back to the wall, palmed the small of Ian’s back to jut his pelvis out with one hand, grabbed the boy’s crotch with the other, and took Ian’s mouth in a deep kiss with his.

Breathless, Ian yielded to the older boy. They’d been dancing around each other in arousal through the practices for the show and had each arrived at the steamy, randy stage. There was no seduction time needed. They had fucked before. Ian, already experienced to the kiss and grope phase of sex with a man—and with Sergio, specifically—returned the kiss greedily and moaned deeply as Sergio’s hand forced itself under the waistband of hiss skimpy bikini swimsuit, forcing the suit off the boy’s hips, and grasping Ian’s cock. Ian’s hand moved to Sergio’s belly and then down to brush the Italian boy’s suit off his hips. And then, while they kissed, they each had the cock of the other in hand and were stroking each other off.

Deter Heimark, forty-eight-year-old CEO of a line of children’s clothes stores in Germany, who was attending the House of Spelling fashion show as a buyer, who had been mesmerized by the fourteen-year-old Ian as the boy had walked the runway, and who had come backstage during the change in scene interval to find the boy to talk him up, found the two boys in the back of the dimly lit costume storeroom. Upon finding them, he neither stopped the encounter nor retreated. He pulled further into the shadows to a good viewing spot and watched.

He watched as Sergio took full control, grasping and spreading the younger boy’s legs while maintaining the deep lip lock. He watched as Sergio nestled in between Ian’s thighs and lifted the smaller boy’s body off the ground and hooked Ian’s knees on his hips. And he watched as Sergio put his cock and Ian’s hole in position, lowered Ian’s channel on his shaft, and he continued watching, as, Ian writhing and panting and moaning and groaning, Sergio fucked the boy to a mutual creaming.

Only then, when he’d watched the coupling of the two beautiful young boys to completion did Deter Heimark, zipping his own fly back up, withdraw back to the fashion show, which already had commenced again. Seeing him settle back in his chair, Edith Spelling, at the podium and giving the fashion commentary, breathed a sigh of relief. Heimark was perhaps the highest volume buyer here. He also was a ruthless businessman, with connections to the Italian underworld. Edith could not afford to lose his interest in her clothing line. Normally she’d flirt with a buyer this important and go to bed with him, if necessary, but Heimark hadn’t shown interest in that, so Edith was reduced to having her clothing designs impress him.

At the end of the show, after handing his card back to Edith that indicated a large-volume purchase of various designs that were shown and receiving her smile and nod of thanks, Heimark went behind the curtain again. He was seeking a boy out. In this case, it was not, as one supposed, Ian Spelling, the boy who had drawn him behind the curtain at the interval, who Heimark sought out. It was Sergio. Sergio wasn’t a stranger to Heimark. Heimark had met Sergio during earlier buying visits to Rome. Part of the profit incentive that kept Heimark coming to Rome to buy his clothes included connections with the Italian underworld, which got his supplies moved without full customs collection.

Heimark had not only motivation but also means to have his desires served.

Deter Heimark had been fucking Sergio since the boy was fourteen and was a rent-boy on the streets of Rome. Heimark had been instrumental in getting Sergio discovered as a soccer star potential and trained as a fashion model.

It was Saturday morning, and two rival schools, the American Overseas School of Rome and the International School of Rome were playing a league soccer game at the International School’s field. Sergio was the star player for the International School and Ian was playing on the American School’s team. He wasn’t a standout player but he was on the field. The two bumped each other a couple of times during play. They each knew the other was there. They each were in heat. A play got rough and Ian’s thigh got gouged a bit by somebody’s cleat—maybe it was Sergio’s, maybe it wasn’t.

Sergio helped Ian hobble off to his side of the field, where Sergio volunteered to take Ian into the locker room.

“I know where the medical supplies are,” he told Ian’s coach. “The wound isn’t deep, but it should be cleaned and I know where they keep the bandages. I’ll take him in.”

“That would be great,” the American School coach said. “Very generous of you.” He was thinking more about Sergio being off the field and out of play against his team for that time than about one of his players being hurt. Ian was replaceable on the field. He would be good someday, but he was only fourteen. He had a lot to learn about the game. The coach turned his attention back to the play, forgetting Ian almost immediately.

Sergio took Ian to the home team’s locker room, back to the back, to the trainer’s room. He sat Ian up on the edge of a training table, pulled off Ian’s jersey—for no discernible need, but he did anyway. Then off came Ian’s shorts and jock and cup. Sergio cleaned the thigh wound and bandaged it. The he moved between the boy’s thighs, leaned into him, and took his lips in a deep kiss. Sighing, Ian leaned back, his shoulder blades pressing into the cinderblock wall behind the training table. Sergio, slipping off his own jersey and pushing his shorts, jock, and cup to the floor, leaned his torso into Ian’s, maintaining the lip lock.

Ian raised his legs, his ankles hooking on Sergio’s shoulders. Sergio put the bulb of his cock in place, and Ian pulled out of the kiss, turned his head, and groaned as the cock slid inside him. Sergio grasped the boy’s ankles with his hands and spread Ian’s knee-high sock-covered legs wide. Ian grunted and panted, murmuring, “Yes, yes, like that. Deep,” as Sergio pressed inside, stretching the boy’s channel, working Ian’s shimmering walls with the friction of the stroke, and fucked him to a mutual ejaculation.

The boys were good together. Both were sexy as hell. Sergio had a big cock, and Ian loved big cock. They fucked with joy and abandon and without an ounce of embarrassment or guilt.

The two thugs lurking just outside the training room door, their heads covered in balaclava masks, waited until the fuck was finished and the two boys, panting lightly, were cooling down before they rushed in, covered Ian’s head with a cloth bag without eyeholes, jerked his arms behind his back, cuffed his wrists together, and carried him, writhing, his screams of surprise, fear, and frustration muffled by the heavily material of the head covering, out of the locker room and into the waiting black van.

The two men kept the balaclavas on when they manhandled Ian into the room where he was kept prisoner for three days. This wasn’t anything like Ian had experienced before and he was scared shitless, so he wasn’t paying much attention to how long they had driven from the international school to wherever this was, anything distinctive happening outside of the van as they drove, what sort of building they hustled him into, or where he was taken, other than it was up some stairs. They were rough with him but not brutal.

Where they had taken him that would accord discreet and sympathetic privacy was a male brothel on the Via di San Giovanni in the Laterano section of Rome. Arrangements had been made. No one would disturb whatever happened here.

The room they took him to had a bathroom attached, and they stripped him of his knee socks, all he’d been wearing when they kidnapped him, before taking the covering off his head. When the cloth came off, he was in the bathroom and one of the hooded men was telling him to shower and clean himself out—that it would be a while before he’d get another bathroom break. The man spoke in broken English with a heavy Italian accent. Ian understood what they meant immediately after he’d showered and toweled himself off.

Returning to the connected room, he only had time to register that there was a double bed and a café table with a straight chair and that the room had unadorned plaster walls and two small, horizontal barred windows high on the wall under the ceilings. The windows didn’t emit light, so they must have been shuttered from the outside. The walls were covered with the kind of rough quilts used in moving vans. It wouldn’t be all that long before Ian found out what the extra isolation was for—to keep the sounds of what happened in the room within the room.