All the sacrifices that poverty demanded,
they endured with resignation.
Franz Kafka
Posso
tocarla? (Can I touch it?)
Mote
looked at the old man, then down at his lifeless, limp member; and, reminding
himself that every moment was part of a great sacrifice, he pulled himself
together, put on his best face, and told him yes, it was fine, he could touch
it.
Giacomo
Ferrini, Italian doctor, retired, seventy-eight years old, wealthy, and solely
concerned with enjoying the fleeting pleasures of life, extended his white,
thick, hairy arm towards Mote's exposed and downcast bulge. How the hell
have I ended up in this situation? thought the Peruvian as Giacomo began to
rub his genitals.
***
It
was a Monday; a day off for Mote, though he would have preferred to spend it
working, earning money. Unfortunately, the odd jobs he'd been given (and the
ones he’d found himself) had ended the previous week. He was supposed to spend
that Monday looking for more gigs. In his situation, he couldn’t afford a day
off. In Peru, Roxana, his wife, and Alice, his daughter, were counting on the
money transfers he had been sending them regularly for the past six months.
However, he felt an existential exhaustion. I deserve a little break, he
told himself. Breaks are useful too. If you’re smart, you can use them to
plan ahead, mate, to study your next moves and not screw things up, he
convinced himself.
He
was sitting on one of the benches in Sempione Park, one of the largest in
Milan.
Mote
sat at one end of the bench. He was drinking a Moretti, a beer that reminded
him a lot of Peruvian Pilsen, a drink he had consumed to excess during his
wildest nights in Huancayo, back when he had loads of dirty money and was
living the high life.
Suddenly,
an older man, tall but slightly hunched, sat at the empty end of Mote’s bench.
He crossed his legs and fixed his gaze on the people happily strolling by.
Mote
didn’t pay him much attention and kept drinking his beer. But soon enough, the
man, shifting his position and leaning slightly towards Mote, asked him: Non
sei di qui, vero? (You're not from around here, are you?)
The
Peruvian had already mastered Italian. Mote was brilliant with numbers and
finance. That had allowed him to unravel the secret mechanisms of the financial
institution where he worked and pocket money that would have taken him
centuries to earn honestly. But his six months on Italian soil had revealed
another remarkable talent: mastering languages. Few South Americans managed to
learn the basics of Italian in six months. Mote not only grasped the basics in
that time, but also the more complex aspects. Italian was now added to the
languages he had learned from birth: Spanish and Quechua.
No,
sono peruviano. (No, I'm Peruvian)
They
chatted. Mote exuded good vibes. Just looking him in the eyes, hearing two or
three words from him, you could feel he’d be a good friend. In Huancayo, he was
much loved. Even the cops who arrested him when his embezzlements were
discovered had been his schoolmates, with whom he had built a strong friendship
over the years. In his role as a financial analyst, Mote had approved every
loan they asked for. He wasn’t too picky with the requirements when it came to
helping a mate. That’s how Mote was. Thanks to these cop friends, in the
obligatory press photo, Mote appeared with his head down. Every detainee had to
look straight at the camera, and if they didn’t, the cops guarding them were
supposed to force them to. Mote wasn’t forced to do anything. His mates let him
hide his face.
Angelo
Facchetti, a retired industrial engineer, seventy-nine years old, filthy rich,
and an incurable traveller, was charmed by Mote. He immediately empathised with
the sad story Mote told him: a South American immigrant surviving on brief and
tough jobs in Dante’s homeland.
Ti
pago cinquanta euro per pulire casa mia. Che dici?
(I'll pay you fifty euros to clean my house. What do you reckon?)
It
was an offer Mote couldn’t refuse. Angelo gave him his home address. The next
day, Mote was to show up at nine in the morning to start the job.
***
Angelo
Facchetti and Giacomo Ferrini were very good friends. They had met on a gay
virtual forum. Both had bid to sleep with the most beautiful youth ever offered
on the forum. Angelo and Giacomo reached the peak: one thousand euros. They
asked the forum administrator to facilitate their internal communication. The
administrator provided them with phone numbers. They talked. A coin tossed in
the air decided that Angelo would be the first to sleep with the lad. Then it
would be Giacomo. After that, they both built a solid friendship.
Angelo
knew that Giacomo was dying to try a South American cock again. It was one of
his biggest desires. But it had to be the cock of a reliable South American,
one who wouldn’t steal from him or do him harm. The first and last South
American he had tried had been an Ecuadorian who stole part of his watch
collection.
Non
preoccuparti. Questo sudamericano è un angelo. (Don’t
worry. This South American is an angel), Angelo told him.
Un
angelo come te, caro. (An angel like you, darling), Giacomo replied,
and they laughed.
Giacomo
couldn't stop asking his friend if he had already hooked up with Mote.
No,
caro. L'ho visto fare la doccia un giorno e ho visto che, sebbene la sua pelle
fosse lattiginosa, la linea del suo sedere era marrone. Ma so che ti piacciono
quelle rarità sudamericane. (No, darling. I saw him
taking a shower one day and noticed that, although his skin was milky, the line
of his backside was brown. But I know you like those South American rarities),
they laughed again. Giacomo confirmed that yes, he was indeed melted by those
rarities, that he liked to bury his tongue in those South American brown
stripes. And he sighed as he recalled the brown stripe of his wicked
Ecuadorian.
***
When
the door of that enormous house opened, Mote confirmed his suspicions: Giacomo
Ferrini, the doctor who claimed to be a close friend of engineer Angelo
Facchetti, was a real faggot. It was enough to see how he had welcomed him;
wearing white briefs and a completely unbuttoned silk shirt.
Since
entering the splendid home, Giacomo hadn’t stopped showering him with
attention.
La
casa è molto grande. (The house is really big), Mote said, while
Giacomo guided him through his palace. The doctor, who wasn’t stupid, picked up
on Mote’s veiled message: the bigger the house, the higher the payment.
Nessun
problema, caro. Pagherò quello che ordini. (No
problem, darling. I’ll pay whatever you ask), Giacomo said.
After
the tour, Mote estimated that the fair payment for cleaning the house (which,
by the way, sparkled with cleanliness) should be around seventy euros. Giacomo
agreed with the figure.
Ma
prima di iniziare, perché non ti fai un bagno rilassante nella mia vasca? Fa
molto caldo fuori e ti ho visto mezzo surriscaldato. (But
before you start, why don’t you have a relaxing bath in my tub? It’s really hot
outside and I’ve noticed you’re a bit overheated), Giacomo suggested. The
white, curly hairs on his chest fluttered with the gentle breeze that refreshed
the room with its large windows.
Oh
no, Mote thought, this old mate wants a root.
Confirmed. I won’t touch the broom, not even by accident. I’ll earn those
seventy euros, and maybe more, in another way. I’ll figure something out.
Mote
completed his degree in Economics at the National University of Central Peru, NUCP,
ranking among the prestigious top five of his class. He was a very clever
bloke. The strategies he applied to solve any type of problem were formulated
in his mind with unusual speed. It was no wonder Mote emerged victorious in
every university chess competition held. He had the unique ability to foresee
four or five moves his opponent could make in any given situation.
Thus,
it was easy for Mote to devise a master move that would unleash the fervent
passions of the good doctor Giacomo.
Ottima
idea, signor Giacomo. Ma ti dispiacerebbe se mi spogliassi nel tuo salotto? Qui
è più fresco. (Great idea, Mr. Giacomo. But would you mind if I
undress in your lounge? It’s cooler in here)
There
was no need for Mote to repeat his proposal; Giacomo, eager as a YouTuber
promised a few bucks to shave an eyebrow, gladly accepted the idea and offered
to help him undress. He approached Mote and unbuttoned his shirt. When it
finally fell away from Mote's body, his firm chest was exposed, along with abs
sculpted from years of soccer training in Peru, when he was part of the reserve
team for Sport Huanca.
Sei
forte! (You're strong!), Giacomo exclaimed, filled
with enthusiasm and excitement; he had a beautiful South American body before
him. This time, he set aside all the manners he had learned at the exclusive
and ancient Catholic school, Francesco Cicognini, and dared to place his hand
on Mote's solid pectorals without asking for permission. Mote wasn’t annoyed.
He knew things were flowing just as he had in mind. Even more so, he took
Giacomo’s adventurous hand and directed it towards his abdomen, closer to the
pubic area. Mi ci è voluto molto lavoro per ottenere addominali
strappati. (It took a lot of work to get these ripped abs),
he told him.
Permettimi
di aiutarti con i pantaloni. (Let me help you with your pants)
Mote
sat down on Giacomo's favourite armchair (an action Giacomo found adorable) and
unbuckled his pants. Giacomo, grabbing the hem of the garment, pulled it
towards himself, and voilà, his future employee was left in mere underwear.
Desire
consumed the Italian; it made him drool. Driven by it, he knelt before Mote,
who, lounging in his armchair, looked like a young Alexander the Great about to
receive an intimate caress from his teacher Aristotle.
Those
little eyes are begging for cock, Mote thought, looking at
Giacomo in front of him, kneeling, his eyes eager like a dog staring at a steak
swaying before its gaze.
Vuoi
vederlo? (Do you want to see it?), Mote
suggested.
Once
again, repeating the proposal wasn’t necessary; Giacomo dug his fingers into
the edges of Mote's underwear and pulled it down, sliding the garment down his
hairy legs. The limp cock of the Peruvian was at the mercy of the cool breeze
that swept through the room.
Che
bel cazzo sudamericano! Che bel cazzo sudamericano! (What
a beautiful South American cock!), Giacomo repeated. Posso
tocarla? (Can I touch it?), he sighed, yearning, without
taking his eyes off the exposed sex.
Prego
(Go ahead), Mote said.
For
twenty minutes, Giacomo stroked the member of his little South American
Alexander when the situation called for something more intimate. He glanced
back at Mote. Mote understood.
Prego
(Go ahead), he told him again.
The
conspicuous Italian doctor took the South American cock into his mouth.
***
On
the bus home, Mote reminisced about certain scenes from the curious interview
he had had with the retired doctor Giacomo Ferrini.
This
old mate really sucked my cock, bloody hell. No one has ever done it like that.
Not a tranny, not my soccer mates from Sport Huanca, not my girlfriends, not
even the Italian hookers—no one, no one has done it like that, with that
delicacy, with that harmony, running his tongue over it like it was the
delicate wing of a light fan, Mote recalled, indulging in
the famous Rubendarian alliteration.
The
Peruvian still couldn’t believe he had gotten hard in response to the stimuli
of an old, hairy, bald bloke. A great blow job, from whoever it comes, man,
woman, or tranny, can revive even the most lifeless cock, he concluded.
***
Mote
had promised Giacomo (while the latter handed him a hundred shiny euros) that
he would return the next day to “continue” with the cleaning work. But that
didn't happen. He didn't go back. He made excuses, claiming to have colds,
hangovers, and a whole slew of alibis he had never imagined he could come up
with.
Looking
in the mirror as he put on the little gold earring in his left earlobe before
heading off to one of the jobs that, thanks to his contacts, had come his way
again, he reaffirmed to himself that he wouldn’t return to Giacomo’s house: That
old mate is going to want to get it on. He won’t be satisfied with just a
simple blow job. No way. Stuff that. I’m going to wear him out with my
rejections until he stops pestering me.
***
Mi
sei mancato, caro. (I’ve missed you, dear), said the retired
doctor Giacomo Ferrini, filled with joy, when he opened the door for Mote. He
hugged him, and the Peruvian couldn’t help but feel the old man’s enormous
belly.
Mi
piacerà sentire il tuo enorme cazzo sudamericano dentro il mio culetto.
(I will love feeling your huge South American cock inside my little
bum), Giacomo said after giving Mote two kisses on the cheek.
The
doctor invited him in and to make himself comfortable in the armchair where,
two months ago, that wonderful fellatio had occurred.
Assaggerai
il mio miglior vino, caro. (You will taste my best wine, dear), Giacomo
said from the bar. Mote watched him intently (a repulsive fat man in his undies
and wrapped in a silk robe, who was about to fulfill his dream of South
American penetration in exchange for four hundred euros), but his mind kept
replaying the message from Roxana, his wife in Peru, informing him that
Alicita, his daughter, had had an accident at school and needed an urgent and
hefty sum of money to be treated at the most reliable and safest clinic in
Huancayo.
He
would have liked to tell his wife where he kept the treasure of Catalina
Huanca, as he called the money he had taken, in considerable amounts, from Caja
Huanca, the entity where he had been a daring financial analyst. But revealing
the hiding place could land his wife in legal trouble. And Mote, above all,
lived to protect his family, whether he was near or far, as he was now in
Milan. No one should know where the treasure was buried. Only he, if he
returned to Peru, would be in a position to dig it up and use it for the
wellbeing of his family.
Muoio
dalla voglia di affondare la lingua nella tua linea marrone del culo, mio
amato sudamericano. (I’m dying to plunge my tongue into your brown line
of your bum, my beloved South American), Mote heard Giacomo say as he
handed him a glass of wine, interrupting his family musings.
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