Bartolomeo by Jim Stanley
Bartolomeo
A Story of Early Gay Imprinting
By
Jim Stanley
Bartolomeo was born into a middle-class family in Milan, Italy in 1930. His father, a 60-year-old widower, provided a comfortable upbringing for this family of five, four daughters and a son. So it was until World War II, specifically 1942. The unrest of the occupation as well as the frequent bombardments by the Allies rained terror on the population of this large industrial city. Of those who could manage, they sought refuge in the countryside, as far as they could from the metropolitan areas. Fortunately, the father’s brother, the c***dren’s uncle, managed a large agricultural estate in the Valle d’Aosta, about 114 miles northwest of Milan. The mansion became the home of Bartolomeo for the rest of the war.
The uncle, a bachelor in his sixties, lived here with a governess, for some years. He was a serious man, a silent man, a man who wore a crown of mystery for young Bartolomeo. In this new rural environment, Bartolomeo moved about freely, free of the annoyances of schooldays, running through the meadows, calling his friends the sheep and the poultry that ran freely on the vast estate. At the age of twelve, too, his sexuality began to assert itself to him in varied and assorted ways. His isolation among the swaths of barley, oats and hay fields, allowed him to laze naked in this isolation and experiment with his newly found sexual drives. His cock seemed to take control. He would lay, naked in the fields and gently probe the magnificence of his hard throbbing cock as it expelled its milky contents over his hand and belly¸ sometimes reaching his mouth and face, which he tasted and reveled in. There was no need for muted expressions of delight as he orgasmed. He could scream aloud the joy he felt as his body reacted to the pulses of exquisite orgasms, “O dio, O dio.”
And these orgasmic delights did not end there. His room on the first floor sat adjacent to his uncle’s room. Being an inquisitive boy of twelve, strange noises that emanated from his uncle’s room on quiet mornings and nights, had to be examined. On one such night, his uncle had a visitor, an old farm hand named Luigi. Luigi maintained an athletic, sensual body, accented by the fulsome grey of his hair. Any onlooker followed that grayness as it descended to his chest ending at his ample and imposing cock and balls. Bartolomeo had seen Luigi often and lusted after his body, particularly since he always took notice of him and patted him on the head, saying, “Bello Bartolomeo. Tu sei un angelo.” But this was the first time he had seen Luigi naked with a magnificent cock that responded to his gait, bouncing up and down and side to side as a composer’s baton leading an orchestra. But in this case, it was directed towards his naked uncle who lay prostrate on the floor, begging Luigi to spray his lusting body with his hot piss. As if a spigot turned on full, the golden piss flowed from Luigi’s hard cock onto his uncle’s face and mouth, spilling onto other lusting parts of his body, his stomach, his cock and balls, his feet. His bladder emptied, he lay atop his uncle’s naked body and kissed and sucked his piss coated mouth and tongue, the two bodies sliding seductively over each other, accenting the intensity of their lust with loud attestations of love and passion. At the height of their passion, each turned to access their cocks, sucking until the screams of lust and passion disgorged what seemed a cupful of hot cum into each other’s hot mouths. Afterwards, they lay entwined and dozed.
As usual, when these moments occurred, Bartolomeo could stand it no longer and lying on the hallway floor and the entry door to his uncle’s bedroom, his cock surged to a new level of passion as it erupted with vigor and coated his stomach and chest, reaching as far as his face. His hand swiped at the remnant of hot cum and fed his mouth with the creamy love juices of his passion.
After one of these passionate encounters, he lay quietly on his bed recounting how far he had progressed in his sexuality, recalling his first encounter a year before.
Because of the war and the scarcity of young to work the fields, the task of the harvest fell to the older men in the village. To Bartolomeo, surrounded by this surfeit of older men, his fantasies and attraction, quadrupled. For one, he had access to them physically as they reposed in the hot Italian sun during pauses in their work schedule. He came to study their habits. He witnessed their personal and open bathroom habits, their body differences, their eyes, their hands, their bare feet, the bulges in their crotch, their free and open exposure of their cocks and assholes as they pissed and shat. It was truly an intense physiological study of the old men on this estate, a study as insightful as Michelangelo’s when sculpting the David.
On one occasion, Bartolomeo took one of his favorite positions in the barn loft where he could observe the comings and goings of the old men. An early fantasy popped into his mind, probably one of the first sexual imprintings in his young life that took place at age nine. It happened on a tram in Milano. As Bartolomeo sat lost in his dreams, an older man in his seventies entered the car and stood before him. Bartolomeo’s eyes focused on the bulge that demanded his immediate attention, pulsing and throbbing before his very eyes. It called out to him, “Touch me; taste me.” Instead, he continued his sexual reverie. At that same moment, the old man dropped his ticket that landed between Bartolomeo’s legs. Stooping over to retrieve the ticket, the old man brushed against Bartolomeo’s knee. Smiling, he winked at Bartolomeo and motioned to follow him at the next exit into a city park. Transfixed by this new feeling of sexual lust, he followed the old man as if hypnotized. The fog conspired to enhance the hypnotism and within seconds, the old man dropped Bartolomeo’s pants and sucked his now erect cock. His response was electric. His hot cock exploded into the mouth of the old man with a force he had never experienced. After sucking Bartolomeo dry, the old man disappeared into that same fog, leaving him wet and confused, nonetheless happy.
There were other imprintings. Once, from his perch in the barn loft, his reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps below. They were the footsteps of Luigi, his uncle’s lover, who came to piss. He watched, enamored at the golden fountain of urine showering the hay at his feet. But after pissing, Luigi lingered to massage his partly engorged cock. Within minutes, his hard cock rose and throbbed. Then came the unexpected. Luigi wrapped the leather thong of his sandal around his throbbing cock and lay face down in the hay, his cock buried in the straw below him. His entire body then began to pulse rhythmically up and down, with a passion never witnessed by Bartolomeo. The passion continued to express itself in moans and groans that met Bartolomeo’s ears as, “O dio, O dio. Take it! Take it! Take it all!” Then all went quiet. After a few minutes passed, Luigi rose, put his sandal back on, wiped the creamy cum from his cock and swallowing his disgorgement, left the barn.
Bartolomeo’s other attraction was towards the feet of the old men bringing in the hay. There was a procedure they followed, almost religiously. To begin with, the hay had to be tossed in order to dry. When it was dry enough, it was tossed onto the oxen dragged wagons. The final part of the routine came with the men stomping on the hay barefooted. It was a playful process, almost like ballet of older men dancing. Bartolomeo, being the young boy that he was, participated in what he considered an amusing activity. What became sexual for Bartolomeo was the contact each of the participants had with each other’s feet. Jumping as they did, feet made contact with other feet, and the warmth of the feet brought with it a sensual, sexual feeling. While Bartolomeo had no idea that the men felt these feelings, it was clear to him that he became sexually aroused when his feet encountered others. These arousals often led to intense orgasms for Bartolomeo, accented by the openness of this activity for him. The warmth of feet became a lifelong obsession for Bartolomeo. It was the source of indescribable joy, especially if he could tenderly kiss and love the warm feet of his lovers, specifically the old men of the estate in the Valle d’ Aosta.
A Story of Early Gay Imprinting
By
Jim Stanley
Bartolomeo was born into a middle-class family in Milan, Italy in 1930. His father, a 60-year-old widower, provided a comfortable upbringing for this family of five, four daughters and a son. So it was until World War II, specifically 1942. The unrest of the occupation as well as the frequent bombardments by the Allies rained terror on the population of this large industrial city. Of those who could manage, they sought refuge in the countryside, as far as they could from the metropolitan areas. Fortunately, the father’s brother, the c***dren’s uncle, managed a large agricultural estate in the Valle d’Aosta, about 114 miles northwest of Milan. The mansion became the home of Bartolomeo for the rest of the war.
The uncle, a bachelor in his sixties, lived here with a governess, for some years. He was a serious man, a silent man, a man who wore a crown of mystery for young Bartolomeo. In this new rural environment, Bartolomeo moved about freely, free of the annoyances of schooldays, running through the meadows, calling his friends the sheep and the poultry that ran freely on the vast estate. At the age of twelve, too, his sexuality began to assert itself to him in varied and assorted ways. His isolation among the swaths of barley, oats and hay fields, allowed him to laze naked in this isolation and experiment with his newly found sexual drives. His cock seemed to take control. He would lay, naked in the fields and gently probe the magnificence of his hard throbbing cock as it expelled its milky contents over his hand and belly¸ sometimes reaching his mouth and face, which he tasted and reveled in. There was no need for muted expressions of delight as he orgasmed. He could scream aloud the joy he felt as his body reacted to the pulses of exquisite orgasms, “O dio, O dio.”
And these orgasmic delights did not end there. His room on the first floor sat adjacent to his uncle’s room. Being an inquisitive boy of twelve, strange noises that emanated from his uncle’s room on quiet mornings and nights, had to be examined. On one such night, his uncle had a visitor, an old farm hand named Luigi. Luigi maintained an athletic, sensual body, accented by the fulsome grey of his hair. Any onlooker followed that grayness as it descended to his chest ending at his ample and imposing cock and balls. Bartolomeo had seen Luigi often and lusted after his body, particularly since he always took notice of him and patted him on the head, saying, “Bello Bartolomeo. Tu sei un angelo.” But this was the first time he had seen Luigi naked with a magnificent cock that responded to his gait, bouncing up and down and side to side as a composer’s baton leading an orchestra. But in this case, it was directed towards his naked uncle who lay prostrate on the floor, begging Luigi to spray his lusting body with his hot piss. As if a spigot turned on full, the golden piss flowed from Luigi’s hard cock onto his uncle’s face and mouth, spilling onto other lusting parts of his body, his stomach, his cock and balls, his feet. His bladder emptied, he lay atop his uncle’s naked body and kissed and sucked his piss coated mouth and tongue, the two bodies sliding seductively over each other, accenting the intensity of their lust with loud attestations of love and passion. At the height of their passion, each turned to access their cocks, sucking until the screams of lust and passion disgorged what seemed a cupful of hot cum into each other’s hot mouths. Afterwards, they lay entwined and dozed.
As usual, when these moments occurred, Bartolomeo could stand it no longer and lying on the hallway floor and the entry door to his uncle’s bedroom, his cock surged to a new level of passion as it erupted with vigor and coated his stomach and chest, reaching as far as his face. His hand swiped at the remnant of hot cum and fed his mouth with the creamy love juices of his passion.
After one of these passionate encounters, he lay quietly on his bed recounting how far he had progressed in his sexuality, recalling his first encounter a year before.
Because of the war and the scarcity of young to work the fields, the task of the harvest fell to the older men in the village. To Bartolomeo, surrounded by this surfeit of older men, his fantasies and attraction, quadrupled. For one, he had access to them physically as they reposed in the hot Italian sun during pauses in their work schedule. He came to study their habits. He witnessed their personal and open bathroom habits, their body differences, their eyes, their hands, their bare feet, the bulges in their crotch, their free and open exposure of their cocks and assholes as they pissed and shat. It was truly an intense physiological study of the old men on this estate, a study as insightful as Michelangelo’s when sculpting the David.
On one occasion, Bartolomeo took one of his favorite positions in the barn loft where he could observe the comings and goings of the old men. An early fantasy popped into his mind, probably one of the first sexual imprintings in his young life that took place at age nine. It happened on a tram in Milano. As Bartolomeo sat lost in his dreams, an older man in his seventies entered the car and stood before him. Bartolomeo’s eyes focused on the bulge that demanded his immediate attention, pulsing and throbbing before his very eyes. It called out to him, “Touch me; taste me.” Instead, he continued his sexual reverie. At that same moment, the old man dropped his ticket that landed between Bartolomeo’s legs. Stooping over to retrieve the ticket, the old man brushed against Bartolomeo’s knee. Smiling, he winked at Bartolomeo and motioned to follow him at the next exit into a city park. Transfixed by this new feeling of sexual lust, he followed the old man as if hypnotized. The fog conspired to enhance the hypnotism and within seconds, the old man dropped Bartolomeo’s pants and sucked his now erect cock. His response was electric. His hot cock exploded into the mouth of the old man with a force he had never experienced. After sucking Bartolomeo dry, the old man disappeared into that same fog, leaving him wet and confused, nonetheless happy.
There were other imprintings. Once, from his perch in the barn loft, his reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps below. They were the footsteps of Luigi, his uncle’s lover, who came to piss. He watched, enamored at the golden fountain of urine showering the hay at his feet. But after pissing, Luigi lingered to massage his partly engorged cock. Within minutes, his hard cock rose and throbbed. Then came the unexpected. Luigi wrapped the leather thong of his sandal around his throbbing cock and lay face down in the hay, his cock buried in the straw below him. His entire body then began to pulse rhythmically up and down, with a passion never witnessed by Bartolomeo. The passion continued to express itself in moans and groans that met Bartolomeo’s ears as, “O dio, O dio. Take it! Take it! Take it all!” Then all went quiet. After a few minutes passed, Luigi rose, put his sandal back on, wiped the creamy cum from his cock and swallowing his disgorgement, left the barn.
Bartolomeo’s other attraction was towards the feet of the old men bringing in the hay. There was a procedure they followed, almost religiously. To begin with, the hay had to be tossed in order to dry. When it was dry enough, it was tossed onto the oxen dragged wagons. The final part of the routine came with the men stomping on the hay barefooted. It was a playful process, almost like ballet of older men dancing. Bartolomeo, being the young boy that he was, participated in what he considered an amusing activity. What became sexual for Bartolomeo was the contact each of the participants had with each other’s feet. Jumping as they did, feet made contact with other feet, and the warmth of the feet brought with it a sensual, sexual feeling. While Bartolomeo had no idea that the men felt these feelings, it was clear to him that he became sexually aroused when his feet encountered others. These arousals often led to intense orgasms for Bartolomeo, accented by the openness of this activity for him. The warmth of feet became a lifelong obsession for Bartolomeo. It was the source of indescribable joy, especially if he could tenderly kiss and love the warm feet of his lovers, specifically the old men of the estate in the Valle d’ Aosta.
5 years ago