Chapter Two
Spencer
The summer of our seventeenth year continued much like the others had before it. We worked on the farm early each morning, but by lunchtime, Nonna would insist the sun was too hot and send all the workers home.
Unbothered by the heat, Carlo and I spent the long afternoons working out or honing our kickboxing skills. For us, it was heaven.
It wasn’t until mid-July that things changed, making that summer stand out from the others.
When we finished dinner one evening, sitting as we always did under the shade of an old olive tree, Nonna cleared her throat. She looked directly at Carlo as she spoke in her usual brisk Italian.
“Your Papa’s coming tomorrow.”
We both groaned, and she tried her best to give us a stern stare; but we were both aware she shared our view of her son.
Alonso, Carlo’s Papa, came to stay for a week every year. It was his annual visit to spend time with his son and mother. An event that has been perpetual since Carlo was six.
“He’s bringing a girl with him this time,” she continued.
Nonna sat back to gauge our reactions closely, a smirk dancing across her thin lips.
“Who?” Carlo gruffly demanded.
“Her name is Francesca, but he calls her Chess. She’s been living with them for four years.”
Nonna spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully, aware that this news could impact Carlo negatively.
“What?” Carlo snapped in response.
Pain tinged the familiar frustration on my friend’s face. Carlo did a great job of concealing his ever-present feelings of abandonment, but I could see through his bravado, and I suspect Nonna could, too.
“Apparently, she’s had a tragic life. He found her four years ago on the streets of Palermo. She was sleeping rough, orphaned two weeks earlier.” Nonna explained.
Unused to such charitable behavior from Alonso, we both suspected there was more to the story than that. Everything about Carlo’s family had always been secretive. We strongly suspected Alonso had Mafia connections.
The Moretti family was wealthy but the previous generations hadn’t been super-elite. Yet the lifestyle Alonso affords, with a private jet, helicopter, and a couple of yachts. Just doesn’t align with his profession as an accountant.
Carlo asked him once; he told me Alonso vehemently denied any link, but there’s too much unexplained shit for anything else to make sense.
Nonna continued, explaining that Alonso intended Chess to help her with the farm.
“Why? How old is she?”
Carlo spat out his questions. The aggressiveness of his delivery was a clear indicator of the dislike he has for his father.
“Sixteen,” Nonna replied.
She made a point of sitting back in her seat pressing her lips together. Nonna cracked me up. She was certain that remark would pique our interest.
I guess it was normal for seventeen-year-old boys to have hormones raging. For me, at least, having attended an all-boys school, girls were still a mystery. However, solving this mystery fascinated me.
Later that week, we met Chess, the most stunningly beautiful girl either of us had ever seen, and we instantly fell for her calm manner. She fitted between us like a jigsaw piece, never encroaching on our relationship but enhancing it.
In the evenings her hair would tumble down her back; long, almost black, slick with shine.
She usually wore it tied up but at night she’d free it from its elastic, letting it spill over her shoulders in a smooth cascade.
Each time, Carlo and I fell silent as we watched her running her fingers through those silky strands, utterly mesmerized.
I longed to touch it. For weeks, I fantasized about running my fingers through those long tresses to stimulate the soft moans of relief she made each day.
Chess’s frame was so petite that I often wondered if the weight of all that hair didn’t strain her delicate neck.
There was a substantial difference between her frame and ours; Carlo and I were almost a foot taller and considerably broader. Perhaps for this reason, we both consciously tried to shield her from the heavy work, desperate that she didn’t strain herself.
As our confidence with our new companion grew, we invited her to join us for swimming in the evenings and occasionally took her to the beach.
Seeing her breasts jiggle in her tiny string bikinis became like an addiction.
Since the first time Carlo caught me touching myself in our room at school, something between us shifted.
He grew progressively bolder; he didn’t push me—just always present, always patient.
He was aware that I struggled with the shame tangled around my desire, but somehow, he made space for it. For me.
With every teasing glance, every careful touch, he coaxed pleasure from the fear that grasped me. He gave me time to absorb what was already there between us. Our connection and our love. Until it was impossible to separate the rush of euphoria his attention brought to my body.
That summer, what started as an observation of our adolescent self-masturbation, developed into Carlo wrapping his hand around me, and pulling my cock until I exploded for him.
The heat of his hand, coupled with the strength of his fingers, and his own personal experience, made each occasion better than the last.
Yet, I remained fixated on having my first experience with a woman.
As we got into bed one night, after spending the entire afternoon on the beach with Chess, he came in from the shower, buck naked.
As always, he’d planned the brief erotic scene in his mind without consulting me. His dark eyes studied me from across the room.
“Are you going to make a move on her?”
I rocked my head back and forth. It was a ridiculous question; he was aware Chess had fallen for him.
Laying on the bed, Carlo approached me in my position.
The climate in Italy at this time of the year was so hot, that at night I only slept under a thin white sheet for privacy and to stop any potential nighttime breeze giving me a chill.
Seeing Carlo looming over me with his familiar air of assurance had its usual effect, and I knew he wouldn’t miss my growing erection under the thin sheet; it begged for his touch.
“I’m going to give you an experience, that is as close to the sensations of sex with a woman as I can,” he murmured.
My muscles tightened, my posture became stiff, and my eyebrows collided into a deep frown.
“I’m not gay, Carlo. I’m not putting my dick there,” I insisted.
He bobbed his head softly, immediately understanding my reservations. The tips of his fingers trailed slowly down one of the prominent veins in my bicep.
“I’m not asking you to. Yet,” he whispered.
Already lost to him, I was barely aware of him lifting the sheet away to expose my skin. His movement was slow and careful and gave me ample time to stop him.
The breath he sucked through his teeth each time he saw me naked and aroused for him never failed to make me feel invincible.
With only a slight tremor now, I lifted my hand tentatively, trailing my fingertips up the inside of his leg.
Experience told me he’d be monitoring my progress. And I could tell by the way that his dick jumped at my fingers climbing closer to his scrotum, how desperate he was for them to reach their goal.
The last time we were together, Carlo asked me to jerk him off onto my crotch; the sight of his semen staining my skin turned him on.
It took time to gain enough confidence to touch him freely, yet once I’d overcome my shyness, seeing his reaction to my caress made me feel powerful.
I adored Carlo’s familiar self-assurance, but knowing only I saw this softer, vulnerable side naturally drew me closer to him.
With each new experience, our actions became progressively more adventurous.
As I stroked my fingers over his balls, he released a long, pained groan. But even though the tightness of the skin on his penis showed how ready he was to release, we both knew he wouldn’t take his own pleasure until he’d sated mine.
He permitted himself just a couple more minutes of enjoyment before returning his concentration to me.
“Lay flat on your back, legs spread, and close your eyes.”
I followed his instructions. But closing my eyes gave me a sense of vulnerability. As the bed dipped under his weight at the end, I glanced up.
“Trust me. I’m going to blow your mind.”
The growl of his deep voice made my chest tighten.
“Imagine you’re with Chess. She’s hovering over you, her tits bare.”
I relaxed my head back, sinking into the soft pillow and closed my eyes again, trying to capture the vision he described.
His palm cupped my balls, while his strong fingers circled the base of my dick. Pointing the crown to the ceiling.
“Her pussy is dripping wet. She swipes her slit over the tip of your cock.”
As his warm, dulcet tones finished his sentence, a wet sensation trailed across my tip and made me jump.
I opened my eyes and glanced down to see him retracting his tongue with a hum.
“She slides down your length.”
As he said that, his eyes locked on mine, and he slid his mouth over me. Immersing me in the heat; the moisture. I moaned loudly, throwing my head back.
Seeing him filling his mouth with my dick was life changing. I couldn’t stop my body’s natural reaction to revel in the sensations he was creating.
Then as he withdrew, he sucked me. Soft at first, just a mild pulling sensation.
“Fuck, Carlo.”
I could feel the pleasure of this moment pouring into every crevice of my soul as I lay back, allowing him to find his own rhythm.
As my dick inched ever closer to the back of his throat, I was aware I couldn’t hold back any longer.
“I’m going to cum,” I warned, expecting him to move or toss me off over my abs, as normal.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he sped up his momentum, as if he were in the final sprint of a race.
My climax exploded out of me, right down his throat.
That night, despite the heat, Carlo held me close—just as he always did. Knowing that without him, I’d slip back into the familiar darkness of my shame.
The day after, I was timid regarding seeing Chess.