that this wasn’t Kyle returning to me in the full flower of my youth, but a young opportunist concentrating on his next meal and where he would be able to sleep for free with a minimum of unpleasant servicing. I didn’t, however, think the servicing would be all that unpleasant. I was still handsome, if mostly gray, and I had managed to keep my body both firm and supple.

My granddaughter, Gabriella, met us at the door and gave Dakota a look that seemed to pierce right through to the center of him, and then a look of surprise at me, but she kept her tongue. She was a fiery one, with a quick temper and an acid tongue, but I ruled the family with a strong will and a locked cash box, and she said nothing. She gave Dakota another look of disdain, and he gave her a look that told me immediately that he would swing more than one way, given the opportunity, and then she led us into one of the dining rooms. She left us then, while we drank a glass of the estate’s best wine, and returned shortly, with Rosella in tow, and a quite presentable late meal for two.

The meal done, I left instructions that I was not to be disturbed until morning and guided Dakota up to the master suite, ignoring Gabriella’s muttered comment and Rosella’s surprised look.

Dakota quickly, masterfully, and completely took control as soon as the heavy oaken door had shut behind us—just as Kyle had always done. His eyes quickly traveled around the large room, drinking in the wealth of the centuries, stopping briefly at a flattering half-finished oil painting of me on an easel beside a fireplace, and focusing on the huge four-poster bed beside two full-length glassed doors leading to a balcony and looking down through heavily fruited terraces of grape vines to the near-distant Ligurian Sea. It was near dusk in a musk-heavy late September, and the waning rays of the sun were picking out and making luminescent the white and ocher plastered walls and terra-cotta roof tiles of the buildings stepping down from our hilltop prominence to the turquoise Mediterranean waters below.

Dakota tore at my clothes, telling me how nice I was, saying all of the right things to keep me in need of his power and youthful attention. When he had me undressed, he sat me down on the end of the bed, stepped back, and slowly disrobed, showing me a perfectly formed, heavily muscled body every much as achingly beautiful as Kyle’s had been in my treasured memories. And he was horse-hung too, with low-hanging, egg-sized balls poking out of a profusion of curly, golden-blond pubic hair. His butt cheeks were bulbous, firm but round as melons. I could hardly wait to get my hands cupped around those butt cheeks and my tongue on his cock.

Nor did he make me wait. He moved right into me. He pushed his cock between my lips and started a quickening rhythm, forcing me initially to gag from the immediacy and unfamiliarity of the act. But I was quick to remember how it had been with Kyle and all those other young Italian studs during my ever-so-brief months of freedom from convention, and I cupped his butt cheeks with my hands and very soon had him moaning and sighing his delight. Remembrances of the pleasure this gave me was quick to return to me as well. When we had established a rhythm, I took