Those Are Pearls Chapter 2

Dans le Restaurant

In the little restaurant a few streets from the Inghilterra, Mainardo Salviani, a waiter, was watching Dickie Greenleaf eat his lunch.

Or at least, that was what he was supposed to be doing. He had spent the last several minutes staring into his tonnarelli with a look of desperation. He was absolutely soaked with sweat, his hair clinging to his forehead and his white shirt clinging to his...everywhere.

This was the more startling because Signor Greenleaf normally maintained impeccable grooming, not like some of the Americanos one got, who took being away from home as an excuse for sloppiness, thinking Italians didn't care, or themselves not caring if they did.

He was not himself this morning, Mainardo decided. He seemed upset, on the verge of tears or—no, there were actual tears in his eyes. His whole body was vibrating perceptibly, and he was breathing hard, as if labouring under some enormous effort. It was the spectacle of a man pushed to his limit, pushed to the brink of some terrible collapse, and yet there was no reason at all why this should be. There was no one else in the restaurant at this hour, and Signor Greenleaf had seemed fine, if somewhat subdued, when he first entered.

The sight discomfited Mainardo in more ways than one. Signor Greenleaf was handsome, in a bland, American way, and what was more one had sometimes had an impression...

But this was something else. He was staring straight ahead, eyes wide, lips parted, both wet and glistening and a high colour in his cheeks. It was an expression, Mainardo thought, that belonged to the bedroom or a brothel, but not a respectable restaurant in the heart of Rome, in broad daylight. Mainardo felt slightly scandalised to be presented with such an expression, and on a young Signor. Mio Dio, a man would feel indecent seeing his own wife that way!

He glanced down at the young man's lap, and had to suppress an oath.

Dio Mio!

The man was obviously some kind of pervert. And to think he'd seemed so normal.

The gentleman had slumped forward onto the table with his head buried in his arms. He seemed to be thrusting himself against the table, over and over again, with a small rocking motion, jolting the glasses and cutlery each time. It was almost like something was pushing him, but there was nothing behind his chair.

Mainardo was struck with the sudden and uncomfortable memory of his babbo, who had got the traumatic psychosis in the Great War.

Though this affliction, he was sure, had no such honourable cause. He grimaced in distaste. Should he call a doctor? Or maybe the police would be more appropriate...

Signor Greenleaf lurched up, till he was half-standing, bent forward at what must have been a most uncomfortable angle, hindquarters indecently raised, back arched as if something was pressing down on it. He was clearly taking the death of his friend very hard. They must have been close. Undoubtedly the news, the stress of the police interviews, the incessant speculations in the papers--it had unbalanced him.

Signor Greenleaf was now emitting soft, half-choked moans, and the waiter found himself approaching him, torn between concern and revulsion and a morbid prurient interest.

When he got closer he saw the young man was actually biting the tablecloth and whimpering, whimpering like he was about to—

The two must have been very close indeed.

Mainardo let out a low exhalation as he felt a heat gather, unasked for, in the crotch of his tight trousers. The young American raised his head and looked in his direction—slowly, as if tugging against some unseen tether. Their eyes met...

And for the first time Signor Greenleaf realised someone was watching him. His face went slack with shock, and then tightened into a mask of frantic despair. `Oh God. Dickie, no!'

Just at that moment he slammed his head back down on the tabletop, straining his back into an even deeper arch. The bottom of his jacket rucked around his midriff, and Mainardo saw that he had his trousers halfway down his thighs, baring his buttocks, and his slim engorged penis was curving halfway up to his belly.

He continued berating himself in this bizarre, unnerving manner, in between choked-off curses and growly moans, and sobbing apologies that Mainardo could only assume were directed at him. `Please don't call the police', the young man said, beating on the table with a clenched fist as he continued to mime being sodomised to within an inch of injury. `I swear this isn't my fault. I can't help it. It's Dickie. He's doing it, not me oh God—.'

He was now squatting with his feet on the chair, knees on the table and jerked violently back and forth, like a marionette in the grip of a murderous puppet-master.

`Dickie, stop, please—arrgghhmmnnh.'

Something splattered onto the white crocheted tablecloth and the waiter beat a hasty retreat. He must inform Signor Munari. Whatever this was, it was certainly nothing he was paid enough to deal with.

Tom came to lying face-down in a warm puddle of his own shame. He didn't have the will to move.

Dickie was gone, for now, the cold, wet evidence of his satisfaction drooling out of Tom's slopped-out hole and slobbering onto the seat.

Let the police come and find him this way. They already suspected him. They'd think he'd gone insane as result of murder. And for all Tom knew they were right.

An hour later found him back at the hotel. He'd managed, God knew how, to get himself dressed and stagger back to the Inghilterra before he was carried off to jail or the loony bin. He didn't make it to his hotel room, though. Dickie caught him before then, rubbing his back with a cool insistent erection that demanded to be quenched at once in Tom's warm throat, and so now Tom was on his knees in the hallway, sucking his cock wetly, desperately praying to whatever gods or saints were still listening that no other guest or member of staff would come by. In between the lunges of Dickie's prick, he coughed out mouthfuls of saltwater and gasped, `Please don't do this to me anymore, Dickie. I can't take it. I'll give it up—the clothes, the money, everything. I'll give it all back to your father, I swear. I'm sorry, Dickie, I am. Truly.'

Dickie looked pained as the water dripped from around his eyes and the tip of his cock, and the corners of Tom's mouth as he pumped his rod viciously between his lips, battering the blunt head against his tonsils. 'I wish you were. I really wish you were, Tom.' He clutched Tom's head tight to his groin as he came, not in dribbles or spurts but in an absolutely solid waterfall of sperm that filled Tom's gullet to the brim for a long minute during which he drowned a hundred times over and yet never died. _`Jesus_fuck, I wish you were.'

Tom clung to Dickie's thighs and wept into his pubes, lips grazing the firm meat-matter of his prick with every word he choked out. `Please, Dickie. It doesn't have to be this way. We could go to Greece. We could be just--happy. I'll be good for you if you'll be nice to me. I will, I swear.'

Dickie reached down. He gripped Tom tight around the throat and lifted him up till his feet were dangling inches above the soggy carpet. Yet he was still looking down at Tom, which was impossible because he and Dickie were the same height.

He didn't kick or try to break the chokehold; there wasn't any point. He hung limp, trying to be as passive and pitiful as possible. He didn't want to look into Dickie's eyes, though they gave him no choice. He was afraid of their bottomless blue. Afraid of how they went in and in and in with no end and no way out. Like an infinite recession of rooms, an endless line of doors, opening only on each other, pulling you deeper into the maze as the last of your sanity was flensed away. Afraid of how the pupils weren't pupils at all but just pits and the black was the black of nothing, the void, the ghostspace between worlds, a dead eternity blazing at the heart of the blue suns. Afraid of their shining emptiness, which now held all the love he'd once so earnestly sought in them, but wrong, returned to him in a twisted mockery of his own desire; a mad, ravenous, devouring love, a love that belonged to a wolf or a tumour or the March moon—nothing Tom wanted on him.

Something slick and hard speared between his thighs, burrowed up under his balls and into his hole. His ass-ring burned as it started to fuck him­—which was also impossible because no human had a penis that long. But these days Tom was getting fucked by six impossible things before breakfast.

Tom's eyes blurred and stung, now, but he couldn't blink, until finally Dickie did, and the eyes released him. He squeezed his own tight shut—the better to feel the violation that was being perpetrated deep in his trembling form. Dickie took his time, stretching, probing methodically, as if choosing which bone to snap, which organ to pop like a gore-filled balloon. Trying to find a part of Tom that was not yet broken.

He held a pain like the tension of a needle all through the core of his body. Very little air was making it down his throat through Dickie's clenched fist. He was getting—not light-headed, but _deep-_headed, feeling his brain squeezed to not only the shape but the size of a walnut, his body dragged down even as that demon cock, or whatever worse thing it was, thrust higher and higher up inside him. When he opened his eyes, everything was blue.

Dickie's mouth bit into his and something wormed into his throat. And yet Dickie was speaking, his voice booming and crackling in Tom's ears like a bad microphone, popping little blisters in his stomach, his words—there was no other way to describe it—raping their way into Tom's soul. `I lied, Tom. I fucking lied. I like you this way—no, I love it. It's the only way I could ever love you, Tom, so be happy. Because I'm never going to let you go. Not even hell itself could drag you off my dick.'

Still with Tom spitted on his cock, holding him easily by the throat and using just that suffocating grip to jive him up and down it, he started to walk forward, stalking down the corridor towards their room, raping Tom deeper every inch of the way.

Whether it was something Dickie had done for his own amusement, or if Tom really was everything Dickie said, his slender organ was caught, rigid between their bodies, dipping into his belly button each time he rocked up. Each time he sunk down another crimson bloom of pain spread its gory petals inside his chest (he could taste blood in his mouth now), but also sent a slow, heavy pulse up his prick.

Tom heard the door swing open behind him, without Dickie touching it. The blue got deeper. The salt smell got stronger. Dickie's cock got harder, till Tom was afraid to move, petrified he would be cut to pieces on it, sliced into little wet cummy ribbons.

But then, he couldn't die, could he? So what was there to fear but more pain?

Dickie laid him down on the bed as gently as any bride, though on this night the groom's manhood was so long that before Dickie settled on top of him his haunches were still raised off the mattress, hanging on Dickie's cock, which was too thick to slide out of his swollen overstretched passage.

Another kiss, another intrusion, this time a little mouth inside his mouth that gorged itself on the blood and whatever else Dickie was fucking up from his innards. More little mouths on his eyes, sucking out the tears, which Dickie had told him had the sweetest salt, the aromatic essence of a soul in torment.

Tom could feel a strange tickling in his core and at last realised it was the tip of Dickie's prick, resting just under his heart, only a membrane or two away. Throbbing there, thicking his blood with its cold.

`I'm going to come into your heart, darling', Dickie mumbled into his damp hair. `Won't that be wonderful? Nobody was ever more in love than us.'

`Please, Dickie', Tom whispered, saying whatever he thought would make Dickie happy and not hurt him.

Dickie sighed, and Tom screamed as he felt that mobile, unnatural thickness press upward again, felt something spiny like a hook, a nail, a knife, but thicker, oh Christ, so much thicker, punch through that last layer of tissue and penetrate his heart. But then the pain stopped. He could feel it, feel muscle and sinew unknotting, splitting open to make room for the pulsing dome of flesh that was almost bigger than it was. Unfurling to cocoon it like a flower in its hot bloody embrace. He could feel it all happening with a hideous hyper-real clarity. But it brought no pain. His heart kept beating, even as Dickie gently fucked it open. And that could only be Dickie's gift. He had made Dickie happy. He had decided to be kind.

`Oh, shit, Tom, you feel so good. So fucking tight and warm.'

He turned my heart into a cunt.

It felt so wrong. Everything, in him and outside him, felt wrong. He was divorced from his own body but at the same time trapped in it. Was it even his body anymore? Where did he end and Dickie begin? He couldn't remember what it felt like not to have Dickie inside him.

Dickie was quiet now, and moving only a very, very little, for fear of fucking right through Tom's somehow still functioning heart. Infinitesimal thrusts, a few millimetres in and out, up and down, back and forth, as Tom's blood washed down over Dickie's shaft and even flowed into his urethra. Tom's body was completely blanketed by his; his full unearthly weight was on Tom and Tom couldn't move any muscle, except the fucked-apart muscle of his heart; couldn't do anything but lie there and tremble and weep as Dickie so delicately destroyed him.

Throbbing, together in tandem, the torn, bloody ring of his asshole around Dickie's base and the torn, bloody muscle of his heart around his tip. Milking him all the way down, squeezing his climax into him like toothpaste through a tube.

`Please, Dickie, your come. Come in my heart. I need it.' What was he even saying? He didn't know if he needed it, or just needed it to be over, but he knew it never would be, so he cried and pissed jism all over his belly as he begged for his tormentor to finish this final, most unspeakable desecration.

And Dickie obliged. Oh God, how he obliged. He clenched Tom's shoulders tight, casually dislocating them, as he pressed his swollen victorious girth up as deep as it could get, lifting Tom's whole body off the bed as he spewed out wave after wave of bitter spume. Tom was swamped. Drowned from the inside out.

And all the while Tom came too, for what and felt like first time in æons. He shivered and shook his way through it, and if it was pleasure that washed through him, it felt indistinguishable from terror.

His heart was slowing. He could feel it. Each beat came fainter, though the pulse of Dickie's cock was as strong as ever. Even the heat of his insides was cooling, as Dickie drank his blood through his prick and replaced it with his own icy spend.

`Dickie. Oh God, what are you doing to me. You broke my heart. I'm dying.'

'Shhh, Tom. Feel it. Ah. Feel my babies sliding through your veins.'

`Oh no', Tom whimpered around his quick panicky breaths.

`It's okay, Tom. Don't be frightened. I'm making you mine. I'm making you me. What you wanted. Exactly what you wanted.'

Dickie covered his face with the brackish kisses Tom had learnt to crave. `One day I'll replace every part of you with me. The softest seagrass for your hair, little shells for your ears, and the whitest whale tusk for your teeth. Coral for that little red prick of yours and fine sea-silk to make the smoothest cunt. And I'll pick the brightest pearls to be your eyes.'

Somehow Tom fell asleep with Dickie's cock inside him. He dreamt all night of drowning and woke up screaming, his cries greedily swallowed by Dickie's mouth, who started fucking Tom again as soon as he was awake to feel it. It was still dark. It was always dark, now.

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