An Italian boy in London
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Awesome story and writing... ready for the next Chapter...thanks
Love your descriptions of his body and how he uses it. I would like for him to be less submissive or determine what he really likes and be happy with it. Would like to know what his cock is like since he has never used it.
You do an awesome job of writing and composing his thoughts and you mix that well with the other characters. Would like to see him turned the tables on Richard...
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Chapter 31: "Marks of Humiliation and Golden Promises"
Darkness still enveloped Alessandro when he opened his eyes, his body heavy, his ass throbbing like an echo of the night. The black silk sheets clung to his sweaty skin, the mahogany bed imprisoning him, Philip’s bedroom—red curtains, the smell of whiskey and sex—an arena that had broken him. It was Friday morning, London’s gray light barely filtering through, a weight crushing his chest. Beside him, Philip slept, breath steady, graying hair splayed on the pillow, a possessive hand on Alessandro’s hip. Alessandro moved slowly, the burn of red lines on his ass tearing a stifled moan, the memory of the dildo—28 centimeters, a monster that had stretched him—searing his mind. I’m not me anymore, he thought, shame choking him, the bitter taste of his own cum and Philip’s still in his throat. The 900 pounds were in his pocket, a deal for the whole night, but the price was him—a shell, a whore, the Catania boy vanished into the dark.
Philip stirred, clear eyes sizing him up, a slow grin creasing his lips. “Morning, Sicilian,” he murmured, voice hoarse, thick with command. “Don’t think you’re slipping away. You’re mine until I say enough.” Alessandro swallowed, heart racing, exhaustion weighing his shoulders, but he nodded, a weak gesture, knowing resistance was futile. Philip rose, naked, cock already half-hard, and sat on the bed’s edge, feet on the glossy wooden floor. “Start good, whore,” he said, pointing to his feet, voice allowing no refusal. “Lick them. Show me how good you are.”
Alessandro stiffened, disgust knotting his stomach, but slid off the bed, knees hitting the floor, his ass burning with each move. I shouldn’t, he thought, but a shiver ran down his spine, a hidden pleasure betraying him, the weight of the 900 pounds and Philip’s voice pinning him. He leaned down, breath short, lips brushing Philip’s foot, the skin warm and faintly salty, a humiliation prickling his tongue. “Fuck, yeah, like that,” Philip growled, a hand grabbing Alessandro’s hair, pulling him closer. “Lick like the whore you are, Ale.” Alessandro closed his eyes, shame suffocating him, but his tongue slid between the toes, an insidious heat hardening his cock, a dark desire scaring him. Why do I like this? he thought, heart pounding, each move another piece of himself fading. Philip moaned, cock hardening, a triumphant sound. “Look at you, Sicilian,” he said, yanking his hair. “A fuck hole, now a foot-licker too.”
Philip pulled him up, hand gripping his jaw, and shoved him toward his cock, now hard, glistening. “Suck it, whore,” he ordered, voice hardening. “And swallow everything, or you’ll regret it.” Alessandro gasped, heart pounding, but leaned in, lips closing around the cock, the bitter taste prickling his tongue. I’m not this, he thought, a fleeting image of a warm bed fading, replaced by Philip’s brutality. He sucked, mouth moving, throat opening, gagging as Philip pushed his head, the cock hitting the back of his throat. A shiver ran down his spine, his cock hardening against his will, a hidden pleasure disgusting him. “Fuck, Ale, you were born for this,” Philip growled, hips moving, insults mingling with moans. “Filthy whore, suck harder, show me your worth.” Alessandro moaned, sweat dripping down his temples, shame breaking him, but the heat in his groin grew, a betrayal he didn’t understand. He continued, tongue sliding, lips tight, until Philip roared, cumming in his mouth, a hot spurt flooding his throat. “Swallow, whore,” he ordered, and Alessandro did, the taste burning, a humiliation choking him but igniting a secret fire.
Philip dragged him to the bathroom, cold marble underfoot, a modern shower with frosted glass reflecting dim light. “We’re not done, Sicilian,” he said, shoving him against the wall, cock soft but eyes glinting. “Open your mouth, slut.” Alessandro stiffened, heart pounding, but obeyed, mouth open, disgust knotting his stomach. Philip stared, a cruel grin, and pissed—a warm stream hitting Alessandro’s face, mouth, chest, the acrid smell prickling his nose. “Fuck, look at you, Ale,” he growled, piss dripping down his skin, a mark breaking him. “A whore to piss on, that’s what you are. You love it, don’t you, filthy slut?” Alessandro closed his eyes, breath short, shame suffocating him, but a shiver crossed his body, his cock twitching faintly, a hidden pleasure terrifying him. I shouldn’t feel this, he thought, the stream endless, a humiliation reducing him to nothing. I’m not me anymore, he told himself, the memory of another humiliation—another man, another bathroom—returning like a nightmare.
Philip laughed, stopping the stream, and left him there, soaked, trembling. “Clean up, whore,” he said, exiting the bathroom, voice satisfied. Alessandro slumped under the shower, cold water washing his skin but not the shame, heart pounding, mind lost. He dried off, dressed—hoodie, jeans, the 900 pounds stuffed in his pocket—and headed to the living room, marble floor reflecting his unsteady steps. Philip was there, on a white leather sofa, whiskey glass in hand, linen shirt open, eyes sizing him up. “Leaving already, Sicilian?” he said, voice low, a mix of mockery and desire. “Thought you liked being my whore.”
Alessandro paused, heart racing, shame burning his throat. “I’m done, Philip,” he murmured, voice shaky, hands gripping his hoodie. “Nine hundred pounds, all night. We’re square.” Philip laughed, a guttural sound, and leaned forward, setting the glass on the table. “Square? Oh, Ale, you’re never square with me,” he said, eyes glinting. “You’ll come back, you know it. That ass is mine, and you can’t escape.” Alessandro swallowed, the words’ weight crushing him, but he shook his head, a weak gesture. “We’ll see,” he said, voice breaking, and turned, the black door opening before him, London’s cold biting his face.
He walked to his studio, steps heavy, ass throbbing, the taste of cum and piss lingering in his throat. Shame choked him, but beneath, like poison, was something else—an excitement, a hidden pleasure he’d felt licking Philip’s feet, sucking his cock, as the piss dripped down his skin. Why did I like it? he asked himself, heart pounding, mind spinning. Why does part of me want to be the whore he says I am? The thought terrified him, a dark desire he didn’t understand, a fire consuming him as he tried to extinguish it. I’m not this, he told himself, but each step, each throb in his ass, seemed to contradict him, a conflict breaking him.
His phone buzzed, a hum making him flinch. He pulled it out, Martin’s name on the screen, a punch to the gut. He answered, voice shaky. “Sicilian,” Martin said, voice hoarse, thick with dark promises, “ready for tomorrow night? My place in Kensington, private party. You in or not?” Alessandro stopped, heart pounding, cold biting his skin. “What… what do I have to do, Martin?” he asked, voice trembling, buying time. Martin laughed, a guttural, predatory sound. “Simple, kid. You strip, show off that perfect ass. Then you give yourself—to me and the other four. Big spenders.”
Alessandro swallowed, disgust knotting his stomach, but a shiver ran down his spine, the same hidden pleasure that betrayed him with Philip. “Four others?” he murmured, voice shaky, breath short. “What exactly do you want?” Martin leaned in, voice lowering, almost a growl. “Everything, Ale. You’re ours—strip, ass, mouth, whatever we want. Fifteen hundred pounds, kid, for one night. You won’t find better.” Alessandro closed his eyes, heart pounding, bills, the shitty studio, the promise of 1500 pounds burning like an anchor. Say no, he told himself, but the thought of five men, of being their “whore,” sparked a fire in his groin, an excitement disgusting him. “Fifteen hundred,” he repeated, voice breaking, trying to negotiate, to feel less trapped. Martin laughed again, satisfied. “Fifteen hundred, confirmed. Tomorrow at nine, Kensington. Bring that perfect ass, and don’t disappoint.”
Alessandro hesitated, breath short, hands trembling. I shouldn’t, he thought, but the money, the need, and that dark desire—to be used, to be wanted—pinned him. “I’m in,” he said, voice breaking, each word a knife. “Tomorrow at nine.” Martin grunted, triumphant. “Good, Sicilian. We’ll have fun, you’ll see.” The call ended, and Alessandro stared at the phone, cold biting his skin, another piece of himself vanishing in London’s darkness, Martin’s party a looming sentence, a fire consuming him inside.
Darkness still enveloped Alessandro when he opened his eyes, his body heavy, his ass throbbing like an echo of the night. The black silk sheets clung to his sweaty skin, the mahogany bed imprisoning him, Philip’s bedroom—red curtains, the smell of whiskey and sex—an arena that had broken him. It was Friday morning, London’s gray light barely filtering through, a weight crushing his chest. Beside him, Philip slept, breath steady, graying hair splayed on the pillow, a possessive hand on Alessandro’s hip. Alessandro moved slowly, the burn of red lines on his ass tearing a stifled moan, the memory of the dildo—28 centimeters, a monster that had stretched him—searing his mind. I’m not me anymore, he thought, shame choking him, the bitter taste of his own cum and Philip’s still in his throat. The 900 pounds were in his pocket, a deal for the whole night, but the price was him—a shell, a whore, the Catania boy vanished into the dark.
Philip stirred, clear eyes sizing him up, a slow grin creasing his lips. “Morning, Sicilian,” he murmured, voice hoarse, thick with command. “Don’t think you’re slipping away. You’re mine until I say enough.” Alessandro swallowed, heart racing, exhaustion weighing his shoulders, but he nodded, a weak gesture, knowing resistance was futile. Philip rose, naked, cock already half-hard, and sat on the bed’s edge, feet on the glossy wooden floor. “Start good, whore,” he said, pointing to his feet, voice allowing no refusal. “Lick them. Show me how good you are.”
Alessandro stiffened, disgust knotting his stomach, but slid off the bed, knees hitting the floor, his ass burning with each move. I shouldn’t, he thought, but a shiver ran down his spine, a hidden pleasure betraying him, the weight of the 900 pounds and Philip’s voice pinning him. He leaned down, breath short, lips brushing Philip’s foot, the skin warm and faintly salty, a humiliation prickling his tongue. “Fuck, yeah, like that,” Philip growled, a hand grabbing Alessandro’s hair, pulling him closer. “Lick like the whore you are, Ale.” Alessandro closed his eyes, shame suffocating him, but his tongue slid between the toes, an insidious heat hardening his cock, a dark desire scaring him. Why do I like this? he thought, heart pounding, each move another piece of himself fading. Philip moaned, cock hardening, a triumphant sound. “Look at you, Sicilian,” he said, yanking his hair. “A fuck hole, now a foot-licker too.”
Philip pulled him up, hand gripping his jaw, and shoved him toward his cock, now hard, glistening. “Suck it, whore,” he ordered, voice hardening. “And swallow everything, or you’ll regret it.” Alessandro gasped, heart pounding, but leaned in, lips closing around the cock, the bitter taste prickling his tongue. I’m not this, he thought, a fleeting image of a warm bed fading, replaced by Philip’s brutality. He sucked, mouth moving, throat opening, gagging as Philip pushed his head, the cock hitting the back of his throat. A shiver ran down his spine, his cock hardening against his will, a hidden pleasure disgusting him. “Fuck, Ale, you were born for this,” Philip growled, hips moving, insults mingling with moans. “Filthy whore, suck harder, show me your worth.” Alessandro moaned, sweat dripping down his temples, shame breaking him, but the heat in his groin grew, a betrayal he didn’t understand. He continued, tongue sliding, lips tight, until Philip roared, cumming in his mouth, a hot spurt flooding his throat. “Swallow, whore,” he ordered, and Alessandro did, the taste burning, a humiliation choking him but igniting a secret fire.
Philip dragged him to the bathroom, cold marble underfoot, a modern shower with frosted glass reflecting dim light. “We’re not done, Sicilian,” he said, shoving him against the wall, cock soft but eyes glinting. “Open your mouth, slut.” Alessandro stiffened, heart pounding, but obeyed, mouth open, disgust knotting his stomach. Philip stared, a cruel grin, and pissed—a warm stream hitting Alessandro’s face, mouth, chest, the acrid smell prickling his nose. “Fuck, look at you, Ale,” he growled, piss dripping down his skin, a mark breaking him. “A whore to piss on, that’s what you are. You love it, don’t you, filthy slut?” Alessandro closed his eyes, breath short, shame suffocating him, but a shiver crossed his body, his cock twitching faintly, a hidden pleasure terrifying him. I shouldn’t feel this, he thought, the stream endless, a humiliation reducing him to nothing. I’m not me anymore, he told himself, the memory of another humiliation—another man, another bathroom—returning like a nightmare.
Philip laughed, stopping the stream, and left him there, soaked, trembling. “Clean up, whore,” he said, exiting the bathroom, voice satisfied. Alessandro slumped under the shower, cold water washing his skin but not the shame, heart pounding, mind lost. He dried off, dressed—hoodie, jeans, the 900 pounds stuffed in his pocket—and headed to the living room, marble floor reflecting his unsteady steps. Philip was there, on a white leather sofa, whiskey glass in hand, linen shirt open, eyes sizing him up. “Leaving already, Sicilian?” he said, voice low, a mix of mockery and desire. “Thought you liked being my whore.”
Alessandro paused, heart racing, shame burning his throat. “I’m done, Philip,” he murmured, voice shaky, hands gripping his hoodie. “Nine hundred pounds, all night. We’re square.” Philip laughed, a guttural sound, and leaned forward, setting the glass on the table. “Square? Oh, Ale, you’re never square with me,” he said, eyes glinting. “You’ll come back, you know it. That ass is mine, and you can’t escape.” Alessandro swallowed, the words’ weight crushing him, but he shook his head, a weak gesture. “We’ll see,” he said, voice breaking, and turned, the black door opening before him, London’s cold biting his face.
He walked to his studio, steps heavy, ass throbbing, the taste of cum and piss lingering in his throat. Shame choked him, but beneath, like poison, was something else—an excitement, a hidden pleasure he’d felt licking Philip’s feet, sucking his cock, as the piss dripped down his skin. Why did I like it? he asked himself, heart pounding, mind spinning. Why does part of me want to be the whore he says I am? The thought terrified him, a dark desire he didn’t understand, a fire consuming him as he tried to extinguish it. I’m not this, he told himself, but each step, each throb in his ass, seemed to contradict him, a conflict breaking him.
His phone buzzed, a hum making him flinch. He pulled it out, Martin’s name on the screen, a punch to the gut. He answered, voice shaky. “Sicilian,” Martin said, voice hoarse, thick with dark promises, “ready for tomorrow night? My place in Kensington, private party. You in or not?” Alessandro stopped, heart pounding, cold biting his skin. “What… what do I have to do, Martin?” he asked, voice trembling, buying time. Martin laughed, a guttural, predatory sound. “Simple, kid. You strip, show off that perfect ass. Then you give yourself—to me and the other four. Big spenders.”
Alessandro swallowed, disgust knotting his stomach, but a shiver ran down his spine, the same hidden pleasure that betrayed him with Philip. “Four others?” he murmured, voice shaky, breath short. “What exactly do you want?” Martin leaned in, voice lowering, almost a growl. “Everything, Ale. You’re ours—strip, ass, mouth, whatever we want. Fifteen hundred pounds, kid, for one night. You won’t find better.” Alessandro closed his eyes, heart pounding, bills, the shitty studio, the promise of 1500 pounds burning like an anchor. Say no, he told himself, but the thought of five men, of being their “whore,” sparked a fire in his groin, an excitement disgusting him. “Fifteen hundred,” he repeated, voice breaking, trying to negotiate, to feel less trapped. Martin laughed again, satisfied. “Fifteen hundred, confirmed. Tomorrow at nine, Kensington. Bring that perfect ass, and don’t disappoint.”
Alessandro hesitated, breath short, hands trembling. I shouldn’t, he thought, but the money, the need, and that dark desire—to be used, to be wanted—pinned him. “I’m in,” he said, voice breaking, each word a knife. “Tomorrow at nine.” Martin grunted, triumphant. “Good, Sicilian. We’ll have fun, you’ll see.” The call ended, and Alessandro stared at the phone, cold biting his skin, another piece of himself vanishing in London’s darkness, Martin’s party a looming sentence, a fire consuming him inside.
