The Pet

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Annika Albrite

“Diego, Pet, come in here and attend to me.”

I have just climbed out of the shower and already these people are after me to perform for them. I look over on the counter where I put the dog collar before stepping into the shower. Do I put that on before going into the bedroom, or not? I’d better. I took them to edge last night with my outburst, shocking them with my growl–wanting more space, more time for myself, being able to get away by myself for a while–asking for my own car. I think it came as a shock, but it shouldn’t have. The Greenbergs put me between them in bed last night, both of them petting me. Like that was going to make it all better.

After I’ve buckled the dog collar back on, I come to the door between the bathroom and the bedroom. Cynthia is sitting on the foot of the bed, all curves and crevices, Blood red lips and fingernails and toenails. Bottle blonde down to the snatch. Legs spreading and fingering the pouty lips of her cunt.

“Drop the towel, sweety. Show me you want me. Pant for me.”

I unknot and drop the towel to the floor. Of course I’m half hard. I’m young and virile and constantly horny. That’s why the Greenbergs have me here, serving their coffee and drinks, cleaning their pool, making their bed, lying in their bed, entertaining them, fucking them. My gaze goes out beyond the wall of glass overlooking the Mediterranean in the Italian Riviera. Arthur–Mr. Greenberg–well monied, mid-thirties and sleek and hard bodied, stands on the terrace there, smoking a cigarette, looking out to sea. He’s naked and is stroking himself.

“Come here, pet,” Cynthia coos. “No, don’t walk. Go down on your knees and crawl to me. Pant for me.”

I go down on my hands and knees and, panting, crawl to her over the carpet. When I reach her, her arms extend, her gold bangle bracelets jangling, and she pulls my face into her snatch. She moans and rocks against me, holding my black-curly haired head between her claws as I lap at her cunt, kissing her clit, sucking on the folds of her labia, making her tremble and shimmer.

She pulls me up between her thighs, clutching, squeezing, separating my buttocks and rubbing the rim of my hole with her blood-red fingernails, as I lean down, possess her lips with mine, and cup and work her pendulous breasts with my hands.

I’m in full erection now. She reaches between us with both hands, grasps my cock, and guides me into her. I enter her deep and we rock against each other, kissing, and my hands kneading her tits.

Arthur has entered the bedroom, he saddles up behind me and fingers my hole, showing me his intent. It’s no surprise when I feel his cockhead at my hole, rubbing me there, slowly entering me. He reaches around and palms my pecs, me fucking Cynthia and working her tits, Arthur fucking me and working mine. All of us panting.

One of his hands goes to the back of my neck, the fingers working their way under the dog collar on my throat, and he pulls my head into his chest arching my back, taking me in long thrusts as I fuck his wife. It isn’t long until he’s pulling on the collar, nudging me to the side, and I roll out from between them and lay there on my back beside them, legs dangling to the floor, leaning back toward the surface of the bed, supported on one arm, while I stroke myself with the other hand and watch Arthur take up my position and kiss and fuck his wife and knead her tits.

I watch for a few minutes–they are beautiful, well-pampered people, a beautiful couple; they fuck beautifully–and then I roll off the bed, pad to the door into the corridor, and then to my own sometimes-occupied bedroom.

I don’t think they even know I am gone–or have any idea whether there is food in my bowl.

* * * *

Pulling on a pair of short shorts–and nothing else–slipping my feet into sandals, and taking up a beach towel, I escape the house and go to the beach. I have taken off the dog collar and tossed it on the bed–on the bed the Greenbergs provided but don’t often let me use. Not far up the beach is a section, among high, grasses-covered dunes, where people go nude and where men meet men for brief encounters. I can still see the Greenbergs’ villa from here, in the far distance. I’m still within certain bounds.

I find a spot in a low-lying area, within the glimpse of the higher path in the dunes for those knowing what they are looking for. Although near where the waters of the Mediterranean break onto the shore, the area is out of sight of the water’s edge. I spread the towel, slip off the sandals and shorts, and lie down on my back, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the sand, my hand slowly stroking myself.

I don’t have long to wait. I am young, dark, lightly muscled, willowy–very youthful, I’m told although I’m twenty-one. There’s nothing wrong with my pedigree. I’ve never had trouble attracting men or women–and I don’t have trouble now. I haven’t come here purposely to give myself to men–but it certainly must have been my subconscious intent.

As soon as I have lain down, the chosen pathway for Ataşehir Escort men, most of them nude, to traverse the seashore becomes down through the depression where I lay rather than along the top of the dunes. Most of the men–most old and wrinkled–just smile and ogle me as they pass by. Increasingly, though, they become bolder, and several have walked by me more than once. To most, a nudist beach is “look, but don’t touch.” As soon as one has stopped by me and squatted and talked to me, there are others doing the same. Then, when one reaches out and takes my cock and lightly strokes it as he murmurs to me, there are men in evidence everywhere, walking more slowly, stopping and ogling–at the edge of the depression and down from the walk across the dunes.

The first couple of men just give a few strokes and go on. But one, who has returned, squats for longer, and while he strokes me, I reach over and take his cock in my hand and stroke him. He’s younger, in better shape, than most who have walked by. He leans in closer and down and takes my cock in his mouth. I lean in closer to him and lick his cockhead and then take the shaft inside my mouth.

An older man is standing close to us. He’s better looking, in much better physical shape, than most of the old men who have passed by. He has a mane of gray hair, and trimmed gray beard and mustache, a slightly hirsute body. The hair on his chest and his pubes is shot with darker-colored hair than that on his head. He’s substantial, but his skin isn’t wrinkled. He is still working out regularly. His eyes are a startling light blue and he as a deep, overall tan. He has a tattoo swirling around the contours of his chest, his breasts not yet sagging, but, despite the tattoo, he looks like a man in command and with money.

He’s in erection, with a shaft somewhat oversized and plump balls, and he has the shaft in hand and is stroking it as he watches the younger man and me sixty-nine. The younger man and I take each other to an ejaculation, and I lie back on the sand with a satisfied sigh of having picked my own partner for a release, as the younger man rises and walks off.

Woof, woof.

The older man is still there, standing below me, erection in hand, and looking down at me. Our eyes meet and hold. He comes down between my spread legs on his knees. He gently takes my knees in his hands, pushing them to the side, and widens my stance. I don’t resist. He runs his hands up the insides of my legs and I don’t resist this either. I shudder and give him a little moan. His hands go underneath me, cupping my buttocks, and, using the leverage of my feet, I lift my pelvis. A finger from each hand goes to the rim of my hole, rubbing it. I groan. The fingers become more insistent, and I groan deeper. Our eyes maintain contact. I give him no signal of resistance now–nor am I indicating that there likely will be any later. The fingers are in deep, pulling my hole open, rubbing and probing. I groan deeper, and grasp his biceps with my hands, and rock against his fingers.

“Yes?” he queries.

“Yes,” I answer.

He draws in closer with his knees, hovering over me, looking deeply in my eyes. I grimace as his cock enters me, but I hold, pushing my pelvis up further to receive him. He’s hard, thick, long. He fucks me and fucks me and fucks me. He grips my throat while he fucks, choking me and controlling my breathing. He is a cruel man, which I find arousing, especially at his age–that he would be so assured of the power and mastery of himself that he would take a much younger man this way. I am as much into the fuck as he is, keeping my pelvis raised with the leverage of my feet buried in the sand, and rocking with him, taking his cock in long, deep slides, showing him that I am taking as much pleasure from him as he is from me, showing him too that I am in synch with the breath play. I am a player. I can take some pain and danger–and cruelty.

When he has come inside me, breeding me–yet another signal that I will take danger–he pulls out, stands up, and extends a hand to me. I put my hand in his. He pulls me up and guides me up to the top of the beach, a hand cupping my bare buttocks, like I am some sort of stray he his taking home until he can find who owns me and turn me over to them. His villa, even more luxurious than the Greenbergs’ is, is nearby, on a cliff above the beach, with a commanding view of the Mediterranean. Everything about the man exudes command.

He lies on his back on a beach lounger while I swim laps in his pool. When I come out of the pool, he says, “Here, come to me, Diego.” I have learned that his name is Otto and he’s Austrian, but I know nothing else about him. He knows nothing about me other than that I am young, desirable, and will take cock–that I will take his cock on demand and maybe something else a bit more dangerous and cruel.

“No, on your knees, please. Crawl to me.”

With a sigh, I go to him on my knees, lower myself over his thighs, take his cock in my mouth, and give him head. When Kadıköy Escort he is ready, I saddle myself on his hips, facing him, and ride his cock to his ejaculation. I hold my palms over the swirl of tattoo on his pecs; he twists and pinches my nipples as I groan and breathe heavily, taking his mastery and his cum.

Later, his Filipino houseboy serves us dinner on his terrace as we watch the sun set over the Mediterranean. Then he takes me to his room, to his bed, and fucks me through the night. He too puts a dog collar on me, which I take it is some sort of trend in sexual game on the Italian Riviera, with a leash and makes me trot along on all fours beside him to his bed. He first fucks me in the doggie position, on my knees on his bed, ass waving in the air, cheek and chest plastered to the bedspread, with his hand pushing down on the back of my dog collar, and Otto mounted high on my hips, fucking me vigorously.

Woof, woof.

There is no sign that he is going to give me a bedroom–only take me into his bed. But when he’s done with me for the night, he makes me sleep on a mat beside the bed.

* * * *

The next day Otto takes me shopping for clothes. He has some at his villa to fit me well enough, so I’m not shopping just in shorts and sandals. The nearest town, Noli, is in walking distance of his villa, and he’s a vigorous walker, as he is in other ways. So, we don’t have to go far. I’m not wearing a collar or am on a physical leash, but he is always there, close by, usually lightly touching me somewhere, so I feel the leash. The town is big enough to have a good men’s clothier, so I am outfitted in a tuxedo and some other good-quality casual clothes. He doesn’t tell me why I need a tuxedo. We stop in a pharmacy and I am supplied with toiletries. Otto buys condoms, which surprises me, as he has barebacked me up to now. His explanation at my quizzical look is “For tomorrow.”

I don’t pursue that point, as we say very little to each other and he doesn’t seem to think I need to know what we’ll be doing from minute to minute. As we move around, he guides me with his hands, and he often registers surprise that I can talk when I say something. He doesn’t speak Spanish and my German is only rudimentary, but we are able to converse in English. The Greenbergs are Americans. I’ve had my opportunity to become conversant in English, and Otto is, I think, a wealthy international businessman, so English is necessary to him.

We dress to the nines that evening, without Otto giving me a clue what we are doing and why tuxes are needed to do it. Nonetheless, he looks spectacular and says the same about me. I am just happy that I am doing something, going somewhere, rather than being chained up at home while my master goes out on the town.

It is the town–Noli–where we go, to the Stabilimento Balneare Bagni Florida seafood restaurant, on the beach, where we have a delicious meal, doing practically no talking, although Otto does acknowledge the greetings of enough people for me to know he is established–and apparently well respected–in the town. He introduces me to no one. I am invisible.

As we are finishing, the Greenbergs come in and are seated on the other side of the restaurant. When Otto and I rise from our table, Arthur sees me, and he looks startled and like he will rise and come to me, but Otto hustles me out of the restaurant. I don’t think Otto has seen Arthur, though, or made the connection that I have previously been with the Greenbergs. I wonder if the Greenbergs are a couple Otto knows.

We walk to the Miramare Hotel and are ushered to a party room, where other men, in tuxedos, are already gathered. There are seven of them in addition to Otto, plus two more young men about my age. The older men are appreciably older than the younger ones, ranging from their late forties into their sixties. Some of the older men are in pretty good shape, but most are on the heavy side. They are obviously men who eat well. All move confidently, look prosperous, and are well tanned. None are as handsome and well-built as Otto is, and Otto seems to be in charge. The other two young men appear to be there, like I am, to service one or two of the older men. I think two of the older men are among those who passed me, naked, on the nude beach the previous day.

I get the impression that this is some sort of preliminary reception meeting for some other event, but Otto doesn’t tell me much. I get the impression that, if I ask, he will tell me to heel and cower at his feet. He keeps me close to him, and although he makes the circuit of the room, talking with all of the other men, mostly in Italian or German, and pulls me around with him, he introduces me to no one. The other men give me lustful looks–I quickly get the impression, because they like to touch, that these men are in some sort of sex club, with a shared fetish for younger men–but they don’t try to find out who I am. Their obvious interest seems focused on my body.

There is a small stage, with guitarists, and Bostancı Escort entertainment before the evening is finished. A male Spanish Flamenco dancer, tall, slim, but muscular, and extremely handsome and full of himself, dances for us to the music of the guitars. As he dances, Otto leans over and says to me, “Spanish, like you.”

“Yes,” I answer.

“His name is Fernando. Do you fancy him?”

“He dances very well. He’s consumed by passion,” I answer.

Otto laughs. It’s the most he’s said to me since we arrived at the reception. I should have known that it was significant.

The Flamenco dancer, Fernando, fucks me at Otto’s villa, while Otto watches. The dancer is athletic and demanding. Otto encourages him to give a show with me, and he does. We never go to the bed. We suck each other off, with him standing in the middle of the bedroom, holding me to him, head pointed to floor and feet to ceiling, and sixty-nining with me upside down. He fucks me at the bedroom wall, me on his cock, as he crouches, facing away from the wall. Me horizontal to the floor, my feet pressed into the back behind Fernando, my chest cantilevered over the floor, Fernando gripping my wrists, bowing my back, calling out the rhythm that he wants me to fall into in leveraging my feet off the wall and fucking myself on his cock. I feel like this is some sort of dance lesson.

He takes me standing, with my shoulders and the palms of my hands pressed to the floor and him jackhammering down into me, clutching my ankles and opening and closing my legs to the rhythm of his thrusts. Otto watches, naked and stroking himself, and urging Fernando to use athletic positions and to be cruel. Fernando complies.

I am exhausted when Fernando leaves, but Otto is keyed up. He puts me on all fours on the floor of his bedroom, mounts me, and fucks me like a dog.

That’s what I am. I am Otto’s dog. I was the Greenbergs’ dog too.

Woof, woof.

* * * *

I was right that last night’s reception was just the first salvo of something. These are the same men–or club–that I am taken out on an old motor cruiser from the marina of Loano some twenty kilometers west along the coast and am taken and taken and taken.

The three of us, the other two young men who were at the previous evening’s reception and me, are the entertainment for the eight old men who take us out into the Mediterranean to party all day. They don’t do just us; they do each other as well. There is a crew of three men taking care of the boat, but they stay well away from the action. I am happy that someone is there not so steeped in lust that they let us sink or drift out to sea.

As soon as we are well off the coast, but still can enjoy the view of holiday villas and flats on the shore, everyone strips down to the altogether. Most of the old men are nothing special to look at–even if they once were–but they certainly are self-confident and anything but shy. Perhaps they once were body beautiful and fancy that they still are. They are all still able to get hard–and not just once during the six hours we are at sea. They also show evidence of long practice in using their cocks.

The other young men and I are outfitted with dog collars, put on leashes, made to move around the boat on our hands and knees, and repeatedly mounted and fucked like dogs. This is a new trend in the game here and the old men are enthusiastic about it. Otto is in charge of the day, and as it progresses, the men get increasingly sloshed with the liquor that has been brought on board; increasingly randy; increasingly free with fucking each other in various configurations and positions; and increasingly inventive and cruel with their pets.

Not long before the sun is setting, the two other young men each is sandwiched between two older men and being fucked in a double penetration. Something more cruel is being assigned to me by Otto. He is wearing black latex gloves oozing with stringy lubricant. The three old men who aren’t busy doubling the other two young men are holding me down–one of the youngest and strongest of the bunch is under me, me reclining back onto his chest. He has his strong arms laced through mine, trapping my arms over my head. Each of the other two old men has taken one of my legs and wishboned me, raising and spreading the legs, making me vulnerable, completely at Otto’s mercy. They are all excited about what Otto is going to do with me.

Otto has little mercy to give. As I cry out and writhe, Otto fists me in the ass, slowly working his way up inside me to his wrist and then flexing and moving his fist. When he has me well open and I have completely collapsed into a puddle of jelly, he and each of the other men, fucks me in turn while the others hold me down. They all are in ecstasy. I manage.

A dog’s day like I’ve never had before.

Otto leaves me alone that night, in his bed, but he binds me at the wrists to the headboard overhead and the ankles at the footboard below, as he lies beside me and runs his hands over my naked body until I shudder and come for him–until I come for him again. How many times have I come today: how many men have come in playing and using me? I can’t manage to count. He is still cruel with me. For a couple of hours he edges me, not letting me come, until my balls ache and I have repeatedly begged him for relief.

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