I walk out on the house deck, in my red Speedo, flip-flops, and a beach towel over my shoulder and look down at Crescent Beach. He is there, sitting under a beach umbrella. There aren’t many others on the beach at this time of morning, almost noontime, and no one close to our house—other than him. He must have been looking up at the house from time to time, because I hadn’t been standing there long before he turns, gets up, and stands there, watching me, one hand on hip and the other one holding a cigar, rather than gazing out into the Atlantic.

He is a big, hairy man; Italian ... Sicilian, I have fancied—a gangster. I have thought of him as Mafia and that gives me a little chill and a thrill. I can see him with a gun holster in the pit of an arm. I have thought of being taken by gangsters, all naked except for gun holsters in their pits, and laid by them, roughly, without being able to do much of anything about it, a gun pressed to my head while two gangster hold my legs raised and spread and I’m being fucked by a third, the other two waiting their turn with me. I watch all of the gangster—the Mafia—movies I can. I watch all of those thuggish Italian men being oh so macho and mean and controlling—and I fantasize about them.

He is muscular and beefy, solid through the torso and thighs, a bit of a mound at the belly, not quite fat. And hairy, other than his head. He is bald, bullet headed, and he has a mean face and eyes that look right through me, knowing everything. Knowing my fears and wants—knowing my fantasies and willing to fulfill them.

He is middle-aged, his black hair, which is bushy on his torso and thighs, is starting to lose a battle with the gray. He’s wearing a black Speedo, barely able to contain what he packs at his crotch, and he has a gold medallion on a thick gold chain around his neck. He’s smoking a cigar and staring at our beach house—and at me—until my parents appear on the deck, ready to drive into St. Augustine for the afternoon. He turns and disappears under his umbrella again as soon as they appear. But he is close enough to hear us saying our good-byes until dinner time. They will bring home takeout—but not for several hours.

My parents are going bar hopping, so it isn’t convenient to take me. I’m fourteen. That’s old enough for me to be home alone. I already know the gangster on the beach has a fetish for fourteen-year-old boys.

I make a fuss about my parents leaving as they come out onto the deck to say good-bye and to go to the car. I want the man down on the beach to know they are leaving. After they do, I go down on the beach, not right next to the man, but not far away, lay out my towel, and go down on it on my back. Just in my little red Speedo, I bend and spread my legs and close my eyes, waiting. I am playing open, vulnerable, available. It doesn’t take long. I feel a nudge at the sole of one of my feet and open my eyes.

He is standing over me, between me and the ocean, standing between my spread and bent legs, looking down at me. He looks just like a Mafia guy from the movies. I shudder in anticipation. He’s lost the cigar. Now he has something else in his hand: two gold foil packets and a wad of cash, in twenties. Just like before.

Without a word—it’s been established that we wouldn’t speak—I roll over, stand, and slowly walk up to the deck. I climb the stairs and enter the house through the sliding glass window, which I leave open. I go into the living room and pull the large ottoman away from the sofa and into the center of the room. I stand there between the ottoman and the sliding glass window, looking out toward the Atlantic.

It’s not more than a couple of minutes before he appears there, the Mafia guy. He comes into the room, pulling the glass doors closed behind him. He stands there for the briefest moment, giving me a stare down, and then he slowly strips his black Speedo off his legs, his eyes continually searching mine to see the effect of his nakedness on me. He’s got a hard on. His cock is one of those they call a beer-can cock. It doesn’t have much length on it, but it’s thick—very, very thick. I give a little moan—in remembrance. He smiles.

He advances on me, puts the palm of a large, beefy, hairy hand on my chest, and pushes. I sit down on the ottoman. He drops the wad of cash and one of the gold-foil packets next to the ottoman, on the floor. I know he has another condom packet in his hand. He runs a hand into the hair on my head, gripping it painful, making me gasp for the first—but not the last—time. He jerks my head forward. It’s starting—being taken by a cruel Mafioso.

The hand with the condom packet in it goes to the back of my neck, and I feel the rough edges of it between the hand and my neck. My hands go to the backs of his thighs, and I open my mouth over the cock, having to unhinge my jaw to take it all in, and I give him head. He pushes deep, making me gag—and him to emit a low, guttural laugh. He leans over me, his hand gliding down my back, his fingers snaking into my crack, under the waistband of my Speedo. I give another little gasp as his finger finds my hole and enters me.

When he’s had enough of the suck, he jerks my head back, painfully. He slaps me across the face with the hand palming the condom packet, and I feel it nick my cheek. The slap is a game with us. It shocks and jars me more than hurts, but it does more than that for me. It helps me feel helpless to what will happen, not responsible for it. And it makes me go hard. It establishes him as a Mafia thug and me his helpless victim. It’s a delicious fantasy, and though I’ve been stroking myself off while I’ve been giving him head, having pulled the waistband of the red Speedo to under my balls, it’s only now, when he goes Mafia on me, that I’m really going hard myself—hard enough to fuck something, although it’s me who is going to be fucked.

Whimpering, I let the slap send my shoulder blades back onto the ottoman, my arms dangling off the sides, and my head arching over the top edge. I’m stretched out, defenseless, vulnerable. He pulls my Speedo off my legs, grasps my ankles to position my legs spread and bent, my heels pressed into the corners of the ottoman, and he goes down on his knees onto the floor between my legs. His hands grip my butt cheeks—I can still feel the roughness of the foil packet in one of them, and he kneads the cheeks, separating them, and squeezing them. He lifts my pelvis to his face, sliding his lips over my cock, and I reach down, gripping his bald head between my hands, whimpering, panting, sighing, as sucking for a while, moving his mouth to work on my balls for a while, and then returning to my cock, he blows me, relentlessly hold me there, as I moan and writhe under him, until I come in his throat.

His mouth moves down then, his tongue snaking in between my butt cheeks, into my crack. He tongues and nips on the inner surfaces of the cheeks until his tongue finds, and enters, my loosening hole. I move to rise then, as if denying him that, but he backhands me across the face and, with a whimper, I fall back. All part of the game. I lay there, moaning, my pelvis rocking against his face, as he eats me out and opens me up.