The Trampling   NC-17 - Adult Only   In the years that followed, Stavros never spoke of the events of that day. Only a few people knew anything about it, and no one knew the entire story, not even him. It was what he thought he knew that threatened to drive him mad for a little while… It started with four of them in a café outside of Siena. Technically, Stavros was looking after some business for his father, but it was really an excuse to travel around the wine country with some of his friends. It was a time of great freedom; they were all amazingly rich and tremendously attractive and they knew it. Most of all, they were young. At twenty-five, Stavros knew he had many years of freedom before his father - vigorous and daring - would leave him the responsibilities of the Estate. He didn't know whose idea it had been. Possibly Cristian, he was a gambler and liked to challenge people to do all kinds of things. But they were all rather drunk, and it could have been anyone, a random idea that took on a life of its own. It was Stavros who took the challenge, to do a day's work with the peasantry, to what end he was not completely sure. The next morning they came for him before the sun was out, with absurd clothes - khaki shorts and an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt, and sandals that looked as if they would fall apart of one actually tried to walk in them. He was slightly hung over, but there was coffee, and he drank enough of it to clear his head. As he dressed, Theo laughingly took his Cassadine medallion and said, "You can't wear this. We'll give it back to you tonight, when it's over." Cristian nodded. "You'll have stories. We'll want to hear all of them." "Yes, yes," Stavros assured them with a laugh. "Where are you taking me? You seem to have this all planned out." "You will see," they said, pressing food on him, and more coffee, before taking him out to the car. The villa he'd rented was well on the outskirts of Siena, and they drove him a little further out, till they reached what was clearly a small vineyard. Stavros laughed out loud and Cristian said, "We thought it was suitable." "Yes," he said, still laughing. "Quite suitable. And if they pay me in trade, so much the better!" He got out of the car. "Will you be picking me up?" Theo shook his head. "You can find your own way back. Call us when you get in and we will choose a meeting place for dinner." Marco said, "And since you are a working man, you can buy dinner," and they were all laughing again as the car pulled away, and went back down the dusty road. Stavros shook his head, chuckling to himself as he went into the vineyard through a gate in the stone wall. His friends must have done their research because the morning crew was evidently just assembling. It was a mixed group, male and female, a wide age range, and they were dressed much as he was, though some of the women wore peasant blouses instead of the button-down shirt. Most of them were dark, and if they were, by and large, more worn through ill-use, he thought he was blending in pretty well. He looked around… It was an old place, obviously, lots of flagstone and open spaces, and not in the best repair. He wondered if they produced anything he would consider drinkable. Still, he could smell grapes, and earth, and the mixture of the two somehow pleased him. It was early, but it was already getting hot. He did not usually wear shorts but he had a feeling he would be glad of them today. Someone said hello to him, in Italian, of course, and he returned the greeting. His Italian was of the Tourist/Business sort, and as the woman who'd addressed him continued to talk, he realized there was a dialect involved here; that, and the fact that she spoke rather quickly, made it harder to follow, but he focused on her, and managed well enough to be able to nod and smile appropriately. The woman, heavyset and grim, seemed satisfied with this and moved on. Stavros, too, moved on, looking around, saying hello to anyone who greeted him. He was surprised to see a large wooden vat, filled with grapes. As far as he knew, this technique for winemaking was positively antique. His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the foreman, along with the departure of what must have been a graveyard shift, accounting for the fresh grapes in the vat. Well, it was harvest season, time was indeed money, and perhaps the grapes responded well to being picked at night. He stood around with the other workers, calling no particular attention to himself, but he was not entirely surprised when the foreman pulled him aside and instructed him to work in the vat. After all, he could tell at a glance that he was taller, more muscular, stronger, than most of the men in the place. The choice of someone to partner him did surprise him a little. The woman was slight, and young. She did not look like someone who could keep up with him at any task. But she was certainly pretty. She had dark hair, the curls peeking out from her scarf, olive skin, and deep brown eyes. Her mouth was rather remarkable, dark and rich and ripe like a grape itself. It was known in his circle that he had a slight preference for blondes, but really, when it came to his more casual diversions, Stavros had highly catholic tastes. And certainly if anything fell into his lap on this little adventure, it would be such a diversion. He took off his sandals and washed his feet as she was doing. He smiled at her and she returned the smile. When he stepped into the vat it was a very strange feeling, sticky and slippery all at once, but he watched her movements and imitated them and before long he was stomping away. He still liked the mixed scent of grapes and earth, and he definitely liked the sway of her hips as she moved around the vat. He mimicked that, too, briefly, and was rewarded with a soft giggle. He smiled at her again. It went on that way for what seemed like quite awhile. Stomping… moving around the vat… it was boring work, and he wondered how people of that class managed to do it - or anything similar - for hours on end, let alone day after day of such mind-numbing activity. The girl with him didn't seem to mind. Perhaps her mind was so numbed that she no longer noticed the tedium of it. He began to try out different steps, to ease the monotony. He was a race horse. He ran in slow motion. He tried a cha-cha. That was fun. Other dance steps came to mind and he tried some of them out. He looked at his pretty little partner and considered a waltz, or even a tango, but instead scooped her into his arms and into a spirited polka, a peasant dance that would have horrified his mother, had she known how well he could do it, but seemed appropriate to the moment, and to the grapes. Flustered, the girl pulled away from him. "Just… just work," she said in a tone that mixed irritation with confusion. He smiled, shrugged, and continued to stomp in his own manner. That became tiresome after awhile - the increasing heat was no help - and he became annoyed with the girl for her refusal to have any fun with him. She was too pretty, too ripe, to be so sour. He changed course and stomped towards her again, maneuvering her to the edge of the vat. She looked anxious, which both annoyed and excited him. Perhaps, he thought as he reached for her, a kiss would sweeten her disposition… Before he could deliver it, she pulled away. Her slap didn't have much force, but it stung his pride. He shoved at her and she bumped against the side of the vat before falling, splat, into the grapes. He burst out laughing, and was smirking at her as she got up. Her scarf was slightly askew, and he could imagine that her pretty little rump was now a nice shade of purple. The handful of grapes she flung at him took him completely by surprise, landing square on his face. He wiped at his face and beard and stared at her. Now she was the one smirking and he had to smile because he hadn't thought she had it in her. He crouched, picked up a big handful of grape mush, and returned the favor twice over. She sputtered a bit, and he decided her face looked just as pretty with a purple spattering across it. Maybe, he thought, she would not be so proud now. He reached for her. This time the slap was staggering. It nearly knocked him off balance. She said something in rapid-fire Italian that sounded like a scolding, but there was something in her eyes, something that sparkled, and he thought she was actually smiling. He gave a low chuckle and started towards her again. This was much more fun than stomping grapes. Suddenly she stepped to the side, so abruptly that, in twisting to adjust, he lost his footing and fell into the grapes face first. As he pushed himself up, he could hear her laughter. That did it. He reached up, as if asking her for a hand up, and instead, pulled her in with him. She let out something between a gasp and a yelp that was muffled as he pushed her down into the grapes. "How do you like it?" he asked, though in English and she, quite naturally, did not respond. Wrestling free of him, she reached up and grasped him by the shoulders. She was really quite strong and between her firm grip and his lack of footing, he found himself unable to get up. He tried to push off her, but only succeeded in slipping back down. Now she was pushing back, pushing him off her without actually letting him get up. This was insane. He was the heir to the Cassadine Empire, he was expected to one day command one of the great fortunes, but at this moment it seemed as if he was going to drown in a vat of grapes. He could hardly imagine his parents' reaction to that, or the obituary that would be written. How was she doing it? She was a wisp of a thing and he was a strong, vital man who worked out and kept himself in top condition. He struggled against her but the girl would not give up. Perhaps she was really trying to kill him. All because he danced with her? Tried to kiss her? It seemed ridiculous, but his life was sometimes ridiculous, just not in a fatal way… What was stranger was that as they struggled in the slush, covered with juice and pulp, he realized that he was more attracted to her than ever. Before, she had been pretty, and suitable for a diversion, but now he wanted nothing more than to kiss that dark, rich mouth… to taste it, as it were. It was so tantalizing close, so lush and ripe. He reached up slightly and was finally able to crush his mouth against hers. The taste distilled the scents, the entire sense of the place, that had pleased him so from the moment he entered the vineyard. As the kiss broke she stared at him, and he thought perhaps she would slap him again, or push him under the grapes and crush him along with them. But that kiss… had almost been worth it. She didn't slap him or shove him down. She just looked at him, and her eyes - those dark, deep olives set in her dusky face - seemed to widen. Emboldened, he pressed his entire body to hers. He was pleased - and not a little surprised - to feel her body react to his, mold against his. She wrapped her arms around his neck as her tongue flicked against his. The shoulder of her blouse dipped down and he could see the swell of her breast peeking out from it. He was tearing at her clothes, and at his own. When her breasts popped out they were slightly larger than he'd expected, though not particularly big, but they were… perfect. He took each breast in his mouth, licking off the bitter pulp of the grape before tasting her sweetness. She moaned, the best form of assent. He continued to kiss down her throat and chest. Every touch seemed to send her into a new manner of trembling. She was like a finely tuned instrument and he delighted in playing her. She was wrapped around him tightly, the sticky pulp forming a bond that he briefly imagined might prove permanent, like cement. If so, he would deal with it. He was as hard as cement, harder, and suddenly the girl shifted her position, her hands stroking him into a near-frenzy. He shoved her against the side of the vat and ran his hands against every inch of her. The body he had dismissed as slender and inconsequential was supple and strong. He loved touching it, reveled in the feel of her hot skin, the sight of it painted with grapes. He could no longer control himself. He entered her, thrusting himself repeatedly into her sweet, soft flesh. She muttered a gutter Italian in his ear, hissing and growling a kind of music. He plundered her arched neck with his mouth and then repeatedly tried to deplete her dark, lavish mouth of its nectar. In an agony of orgiastic excitement, he actually bit into it, and relished the salty taste of her blood mixed with her other tastes. She clung to him, rocking to his rhythm, keeping up with him as she had before. He was both horse and rider, attacker and victim, God and worshipper. Finally, he came in a terrible roar that mixed and mingled with her own cry. They fell back into the grapes. He was limp and exhausted and altogether happy. A glance at the girl indicated that she felt the same way. Suddenly, there was a flurry of noise beyond them. Other workers had come into the courtyard in a babble of concern and anger. Stavros felt arms reaching down to pull him out of the vat, saw his partner lifted up as well. Everyone was shouting, the words spilling out faster than ever. He had no idea what they were saying, only that they were angry, and there were too many of them for him, in his depleted condition, to deal with effectively. Before he knew it, the girl was out of sight, hustled away, and he was being half pushed, half pulled out of the vineyard and out onto the street. He was suddenly very conscious that he, like the girl, was covered from head to toe in crushed grape leavings. Somehow he made it back to the villa without being seen, walking through rural roads that were mercifully deserted. He was safe, he thought, from prying eyes and scandalous, misleading headlines. Safe, of course, is always a relative term, and in the days to come he would muse on that thought from time to time. For there were no reporters in the villa, no gossips. What greeted him was much worse. "Stavros! What on earth - ?" Helena, elegant and impeccable as always, today in an ecru and gold Chanel suit, stood as he came into the living room. He sighed. "Mother…" "What has happened to you? How did you get all --?" She gestured, at a loss for words. "Who did this to you?" "In a way, Mother, I did it to myself. Though I admit I had some help." "What are you talking about?" she asked crossly. This… creature was not her son. That was the expression playing across her face. "I took an excursion, Mother. I learned about winemaking…" "Oh, Stavros, really, if your father knew - " "But he won't. Because you won't tell him, will you, Mother?" He was torn between the need to try and wash off the grape stains as quickly as possible and a perverse need to taunt his mother with his 'degraded' condition. "There are times when I really have no idea what you are thinking or doing. You have the Antonelli meeting tomorrow, or don't you remember?" "I do," he said coolly. "Is that what you are doing here, Mother? Making sure it is done satisfactorily?" The look on her face left no doubt that that was her intention. That, and being at his side, and part of a key transaction. Her role of Matriarch gave her power, but it was applied subtly, indirectly… "You will be Prince someday. You really need to stop… tramping about like a peasant." There were always so many undercurrents to everything she said. He was her son, he was the Heir, he was… what else was he to her? He was seized with the urge to hurt her, to draw blood as he had with the girl. "Do you really want to know what I was doing?" "Certainly." "I was having quite possibly the most extraordinary sex of my life! And I hope to have it again, and as often as possible. And now, if you will excuse me, I really need to try and wash this off!" He left her, ideally speechless, and went into the bathroom. Washing himself off was harder than it looked and his beard was finally sacrificed, his hair close cropped by his manservant. Two different soaps got off the worst of it but there were lilac splotches on him that Helena refrained - pointedly - from commenting on. He was able to avoid explaining them to his friends by using his mother's arrival as an excuse to postpone their dinner. Eating with a sullen, offended Helena was penance enough. By the end of the evening, however, she was her usual girlishly perky self. He went to bed, complacent with the knowledge that Helena could not stay angry with him for long. The next morning she even found a subtly effective stage makeup that concealed the most conspicuous stains in time for the Antonelli meeting, which he brought off without incident. Afterwards, he called his father to brief him on the meeting; his mother then took the call in another room, which was just as well, as Stavros had a limited tolerance for his parents more 'marital' moments, both romantic and combatative. Helena returned to Greece the next day. That afternoon Stavros, dressed in dark slacks, a linen shirt and a cashmere jacket, had his driver take him to the vineyard. He went into the courtyard and looked around but did not see the girl, nor could he find her in the fields. He described her to one of the other workers, and was told that she had not been seen since the day she was in the vat with him. Indignantly, he asked if she was fired. No, he was assured. It was the height of harvest season and she was a good worker. He asked for her name and address and, after applying some pressure, was provided with them. She was not in her rented room and her landlord had not seen her since she had come home, grape-stained and enigmatic. Concealing a growing state of alarm, Stavros returned to the villa, where he employed private detectives. They worked for weeks, then months, then informed him that there was no trail to follow. The girl had disappeared, as girls of that class sometimes did. He never spoke of her. When he finally did sit down to dinner with Cristian, Marco and Theo, he told them that he had trampled grapes and learned a great deal about winemaking. As indeed he had. He could never quite bring himself to challenge his parents, who, in any event, he did not think would tell him the truth. They, too, would remind him that peasant girls came and went with the harvest, or for other reasons. He told himself that she had been embarrassed by their encounter, by the way her co-workers had found them together. He told himself that Mikkos or Helena had bought her off through one of their intermediaries. Because to admit the other choice that sometimes came unbidden into his thoughts late at night, when the scent of grapes and earth and sunshine intermingled would appear like a sensory hallucination, to accept that it might have happened because he could not resist taunting the complex, predatory siren who had given birth to him… would have been terrible. He forced himself to forget her, to forget the feel of her, the smell and taste of her, of the day. But it was several months before he could drink red wine again. And longer still before he did not fancy he tasted something salty and bitter in it when he did drink…