Book Title: The Road to Montepulciano
Author: Garrick Jones
Publisher: Moshpit Publications
Cover Artist: Garrick Jones
Release Date: September 19, 2023
Genre: Crime Thriller/Historical Fiction
Themes: Sowing one’s oats; Finding Mr. Right; Acceptance in community
Heat Rating: 5 flames
Length: 140 500 words/ 393 pages (paperback version)
It is a standalone book and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Buy Links
Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Smashwords
Blurb
Two years after finishing his tour of duty in the Occupational Forces in Japan, Damson O’Reilly arrives in Siena, Italy. Sight-unseen at a local auction, he buys an abandoned Tuscan farmhouse in which he aims to write, paint, and start a new life.
The house, passed over at auction, becomes an impulse buy when it’s put up for a final time. He’s prepared for a semi-ruin, happy to turn his hand to renovating the house—however, what he’s totally unprepared for are three dead bodies, one of which he stumbles over when he arrives at La Mensola, the name of his isolated farmhouse on the road between Siena and Montepulciano.
Against the backdrop of a series of grisly murders, The Road to Montepulciano is the story of a young man, still suffering the scars of war, who, despite betrayal of trust and surrounded by a complex web of lies, finds friendship, love and the warmth of community.
Back at his apartment, we took off our jackets and he poured us a drink, tuning the radio in to the American overseas wireless station, which at that time of night was playing popular songs requested by servicemen and dedicated to their families and girlfriends. Most were hits from the war years, something that surprised me; I’d expected the latest releases. We’d just settled down with our second scotch on the rocks, my tie loosened around my neck and the top three buttons of my shirt undone, when someone knocked at the door.
“Who the hell is that?” Randy said, getting up and going to the door. A few minutes later he returned, pulling Giancarlo Manetti behind him, leading him by one finger hooked under the knot of his bow tie.
“Hi, there,” Manetti said with a stupid grin on his face. He was really drunk; it made me smile. “Sorry to disturb you, Damson. Can I call you Damson when we’re not working?’
“Sure, Giancarlo. You’ve already asked me that.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, ever so slightly slurring the “s”. “I remember.”
I watched, fascinated, as Randy undid his bow tie and removed his tuxedo jacket, Manetti swaying gently, continuing to smile at me.
“Come over here,” Randy said to him, leading him to the sofa opposite where I was sitting. He began to unbutton his trousers.
“You don’t mind, Damson?” Manetti asked me, as he unsteadily unbuttoned his shirt.
“Not in the least,” I said, my hand moving to my crotch.
Manetti’s cock sprang out of his boxer shorts. It was long and fleshy, fatter at the top than at the base, like an ice-cream cone, and with an impressive honey-coloured knob. I watched as Randy touched the tip with one finger then withdrew it, drawing out a long, glistening thread. It was fascinating to watch the dance: Giancarlo’s pants and undershorts resting on his shoe tops, the length of his penis disappearing into Randy’s mouth, whose hands firmly gripped the Italian’s hips as his head moved back and forth over the length of his cock. I swallowed a mouthful of saliva; I could just imagine that fat knob stretching the back of my throat.
I don’t recall the exact moment that my penis was released from the confines of my pants and underwear, but I was very aware that, while he moaned softly, Giancarlo’s eyes didn’t leave my stroking hand. My eyes, however, were fixed on the part of his arse that was showing beneath the length of his dress shirt-tails. It was a very nice arse indeed: rounded, firm-looking and densely haired. The light glistened on the blond thicket. I pulled off my shoes and socks, then my trousers and underwear, and turned off the overhead ceiling lights, then lowered the volume on the radio.
Giancarlo beckoned me to him with a toss of his head. Pushed up against his arse, my cock felt wonderful, the shaft nestled in the cleft between his buttocks, the head of my dick rubbing against the patch of blond hairs in the small of his back. One of Randy’s hands snaked between Giancarlo’s legs and found my ball sack, which he began to twist and massage gently. I peered over Giancarlo’s shoulder; Randy kept on sucking, but looked up at me with a smile in his eyes. I knelt down and untied Giancarlo’s shoelaces, then removed his shoes and socks, helping him step out of his trousers and underwear before returning to stand pressed up tightly behind him.
He turned his head and whispered, “Do you kiss, Mr O’Reilly?” I nodded. “Then show me what you can do.”
Like Randy’s, his tongue was thick and generous. He reeked of booze and cigarettes, but I didn’t mind, grinding my hips against him as we swapped tongues. I knew at the back of my mind that I’d crossed a professional line, but I’d also had too much to drink to care. There comes a point with most men when their brain function moves from their head to their balls. I knew that I couldn’t stop what I’d started, so groaned loudly when I was finally embedded deeply in Giancarlo’s body. He’d spat into his hand, lubricated my cock, then guided me to the spot and pushed back against me.
“Holy cow! What have you been hiding from me, Giancarlo?” Randy had said with an enormous grin plastered across his face. He winked at me, then went back to what he’d been doing.
It had been years since I’d been inside a man. I’d quite forgotten the warmth around my penis, the feeling of the tight band around the base of my shaft, and the obvious enjoyment of the man I was fucking. The man I was fucking right now was pushing back against my thrusts, biting my tongue and growling.
“I make the same sorts of noises when Randy’s fucking me,” I whispered into his ear as I continued to pound away.
“I want to see that,” he said.
“Let me finish first,” I replied. “I’m getting very close.”
He pulled away then threw himself onto the sofa. “The night’s young, Damson. There’s plenty of time for more than once.” He didn’t sound quite as drunk as he had when he’d arrived. I started to wonder how much had been play-acting.
He swallowed the best part of a full glass of scotch as he lay beside us, me on my back on the sofa, my legs under Randy’s armpits, alternately sharing deep kisses with the two men while Randy gave it to me. “You want this big cock in you, too?” he asked Giancarlo as his excitement grew. I didn’t care what he said; I was far too excited to pay much heed. All I cared about was the sensation of that huge penis thumping into me and Giancarlo’s hand pulling on my dick. Without warning, Randy arched his back and groaned through closed teeth. I could feel his dick pulsing as he spurted.
“Damn, Damson, I couldn’t stop. I’m really sorry,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“I’m not,” I said, extricating myself. I grabbed one of Giancarlo’s legs and pulled him onto his back. “Do you want me to fuck you on the sofa or on the floor? I asked him.
He swallowed the rest of the scotch in his glass, then said, “I don’t care, O’Reilly, just make it a good one. Show me what an Aussie man can do.”
I think I did my country proud, even the second time around an hour later, after we three had showered together, him spread out on his face on the bed, me buried in him up to my balls, and Randy on top of me, his cock stretching my arsehole in a way that made me want it to go on forever.
From the outback to the opera.
After a thirty-year career as a professional opera singer, performing as a soloist in opera houses and in concert halls all over the world, I took up a position as lecturer in music in Australia in 1999, at the Central Queensland Conservatorium of Music, which is now part of CQ University.
Brought up in Australia, between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, I retired in 2015 and now live in the tropics, writing, gardening, and finally finding time to enjoy life and to re-establish a connection with who I am after a very busy career on the stage and as an academic.
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