By ChrisTheHiker

Chapter 2: A journey that gets off to a bad start…

May in northern Italy is my favourite time of year. The temperatures are mild, jackets are stowed away in the cellar, but the stifling heat of summer has not arrived yet. And above all, the winter greyness that hides the sun for weeks on end has vanished for good until next winter. I live in a small village called Santa Sofia, a few kilometres north of Pavia in Lombardy. For me, it is the most beautiful region, even if all Italians will tell you otherwise… To give you an idea, we are 45 minutes from Milan, in the Po Valley, the river that crosses northern Italy from west to east, linking the Italian Alps of Piedmont to the Adriatic Sea south of Venice. This fertile plain is where agriculture and industry produce Italy’s main wealth.

But I have not even introduced myself yet. Alessio, Ale to my friends, 35 years old, 1.76 m, 63 kg, lean but muscular. Brown eyes. Thick, bushy black hair, typically Italian. I always keep it a bit tousled, probably because I cannot be bothered to spend too much time styling it. I am reasonably hairy, mostly on my legs and chest. Several guys have told me I should wax, but I am happy the way I am; I like that masculine look, though I will admit I do shave down below—but more for comfort than for the look.

I am gay. And although I grew up in a traditional Catholic family, it has never been a problem. When I came out, my parents and my brother, who is four years older than me, were immediately supportive, and it actually tended to strengthen our bonds rather than the opposite.

I have had several boyfriends. As I am more the type to look for stable relationships and exclusive sex rather than flitting from one person to another, my body count is unusually low for a gay man. In fact, I have never slept with a guy I was not in love with. Not for lack of opportunity—there is no shortage of that—but I simply don’t feel the need or the desire.

My last relationship lasted nearly 10 years. Filippo and I met at our university graduation party. Although we had spent five years at the same university without ever crossing paths, it took just one glance for us to realise we were made for each other. With our degrees in hand, and both of us quickly landing well-paid jobs, we really made the most of our late twenties. Going out, travelling, leisure activities – nothing could hold us back. But by the time we reached 30, as our professional responsibilities became increasingly burdensome, our relationship began to run out of steam. Although we had travelled the world together, routine became our worst enemy. And finally, a year ago now, we decided to split up. Or rather, Filippo decided to leave.

For my part, even though I realised our relationship was not what it used to be, I still held out hope that we could grow and rekindle the spark. But Filippo had a strong character – I have always been rather drawn to and comfortable with lads like that, who can make decisions without me having to think too much about it – and once he had made up his mind, nothing could make him change it.

Even though I did not react badly at first, the sense of loss and emptiness set in very quickly. I filled that void by stepping up my exercise regime. I had always cycled and run, but after the break-up I started going to the gym. Perhaps I wanted to look a bit like the guys I saw on social media, the very same ones producing the adult content that I started consuming much more of after the break-up.

Filippo and I set up a Twitter account when we first met. At first, we shared our experiences from our travels and nights out, all in good fun. We posted quite a few selfies, and we soon noticed that our photos in swimwear (being good Italians, we always wore Speedo-style swimsuits) were attracting more and more comments from men. Whilst our account was completely innocent at the start, it quickly won over the online gay community. As the comments and discussions became increasingly suggestive, we began to post more and more daring content. The holiday photos were gradually replaced by photos of our naked bodies, then by videos of us having sex. We did not make any money from it – we never wanted to put ourselves out there on sites like OnlyFans – we did it for fun, and probably also for our own pride in hearing others say we were hot. In our relationship, Filippo was the top whilst I was the bottom. Our interactions with our followers gradually shifted towards a dynamic of domination and submission. Internet users no longer wanted to see me merely as passive, but truly submissive.

But as Filippo was not really interested in that sort of relationship, and our relationship was already on the rocks, we never took that turn.

For my part, however, I cannot say that these discussions left me unmoved. I had of course already had a vague idea of BDSM practices, but it was through discussions with our followers that I really came to understand this world and became interested in it. Particularly after the break-up, I spent quite a bit of time watching videos and researching these practices that excited me. Although I quickly set up an account on Recon and created a new profile on X, these activities remained entirely virtual for me. Not that I did not have the courage to meet guys, but I was not looking for one-night stands. I needed a relationship.

Three months ago, my world was turned upside down. The company I had been working for since finishing my studies was bought out by an American firm and underwent restructuring. At the Milan site where I worked, 30% of the positions were cut, including mine. With my background as a micro-engineering graduate, finding a new job was not impossible—quite the opposite. Lombardy is one of Europe’s major industrial hubs, and companies were looking for qualified staff. At 35 years old and with 10 years’ experience, I had a strong profile. Not too old, but already well-experienced.

Yet at that time, I couldn’t quite picture myself in a new role. Working 8.5 hours a day, five days a week no longer fulfilled me; I needed something else. I was thinking of switching to a completely different field. I loved working with young people and I thought that perhaps I could contribute more to society in the field of education than in my original line of work.

But I couldn’t find what I was looking for. As the weeks went by, my mind became increasingly cluttered. During our traditional Sunday family lunch, my father, tired of hearing me complain about not knowing what to do, said to me in a joking tone, “Well, why don’t you just do what all those young, trendy bobo types with mustache do and go off to Asia for a year with your backpack!”

That phrase kept going round and round in my head for several nights. It wasn’t that I particularly fancied heading off to Asia in ‘back-to-basics’ mode, but I realised that all the trips I had taken with Filippo had been rather comfort-oriented. We always chose nice hotels and always travelled in comfort

After a few days’ thought, I realised what I really needed: to step out of my comfort zone. To try an experience I had never had before, one that might give me the perspective I needed to think about my future.

The idea was set, but I was still a long way from having a plan. I scoured forums for ideas. I was on my balcony overlooking the River Ticino, wavering between working in a clinic in Colombia and taking part in a mine-clearing programme in Africa, when I saw a group of hikers passing along the path by the river.

That is when it struck me as obvious: I was going to cross Europe on foot. The European long-distance hiking trail E1 crossed the entire continent from the North Cape in Norway to Sicily, covering over 8,000 km. And it passed right by my house. My mind was made up: I would start at the North Cape and head south to my home. It would be around 7,000 km. At a rate of 40 km a day, that meant about six months of travelling.

I told my family about my decision; they were delighted that I finally had a plan, and I started getting my gear together. I really loved hiking; at the time, I would always go for a week in the Alps with old university friends, where we would follow routes from hut to hut. I wasn’t at all familiar with self-sufficient hiking, however, and particularly with wild camping. But I took the project seriously and sought advice online and from various friends more experienced than me.

May is the perfect time to set off on this trek. Most of the snow has already melted in the north, and if I keep up a good pace, I can expect to be home by November, thus crossing the Alps in October before the snow arrives.

Barely two weeks after I had made up my mind, everything was ready. My backpack sat by the front door, waiting for me to set off the next day. I couldn’t see myself flying to the North Cape; it didn’t seem to fit with the spirit of this journey. So I decided to travel there by train. It would take me three days to get there. The Eurocity connected Milan to Basel in just over three hours. From there, I would take a night train to Hamburg, then two day trains to Stockholm via Copenhagen. Finally, a night train would take me to Narvik in northern Norway, where a boat would allow me to reach the North Cape.

I was all set and waiting for my friends to drop by for my farewell drinks.

And that was when my phone rang. It was Deutsche Bahn. With a thick accent and very broken Italian, the person on the other end of the line explained that tomorrow’s Euronight from Basel to Hamburg had been cancelled due to flooding caused by heavy rain in the Ruhr region over the past few days. After a few minutes of discussion, I realised that the company wasn’t offering me any alternative options, as north-south traffic had been almost completely halted.

I hung up the phone in frustration just as my best friend rang the doorbell. After explaining the situation to him, I was so frustrated that I was ready to give up on the whole thing.

“You’re not serious, are you? You’re not going to give up at the first sign of trouble, are you?” he snapped at me. “Just take a plane; we don’t care about your fucking principles.”

In the end, perhaps he was right. Postponing the whole trip by a few days also meant I’d lose my tickets for the Danish and Swedish legs, which wouldn’t be refunded. I fetched my laptop and within 15 minutes, we found a flight from Bergamo to Gothenburg at a reasonable price for the following day. From there, I could easily get to Stockholm and continue my journey.

Relieved to have found a solution, I was able to celebrate my departure in style with the dozen or so friends who had come to see me off.

And here I am now, on Saturday 13 May, in the waiting area at Bergamo Airport, waiting for my flight to Sweden. Boarding begins and I am one of the first to board the plane. I find my seat, 16A, by the window. The plane is filling up nicely, and I hope the seat next to me stays empty. Given the number of people in the waiting area, I don’t think the plane should be full.

“Cabin crew, boarding completed”.

I am delighted to see that my row will remain empty. Not that it is really a big deal on a 90-minute flight, but I hate having to make small talk with a neighbour who is a bit too chatty.

I put in my AirPods and watch the ground staff bustling about through the window as the plane prepares for take-off.

I jump when a hand lands on my shoulder. I turn around, taking off my earphones. The flight attendant looks at me with a smile.

“Sir, could you please put your bag under the seat? We’re about to take off.”

I had indeed placed my small bag on the seat next to me, so I quickly put it under the seat in front of me.

“Here is your seat, sir, 16B,” I hear the flight attendant say.

I look up to see a guy squeezing between the seats and sitting down next to me.

“Hi, I am Finn,” he says to me in English, holding out his hand.

“Alessio,” I reply, stammering, partly out of frustration at having a neighbour when the plane is half-empty, but also because this guy gives off an energy that impresses me.

He is tall. It is hard to tell just sitting here, but he must be at least 1.85 metres tall, if not more. He is blond. Short, impeccably styled hair. He has blue eyes. Eyes in which you feel you can see the sea. And he is broad. His biceps fill out his T-shirt and his build is such that I have to twist slightly in my seat to avoid him touching me.

But above all, he is wearing leather trousers whose smell fills my nostrils.

The plane takes off and I shrink into my seat. Not only is my neighbour well-built, but he is also sitting with his legs spread wide like a pasha. When the ‘fasten your seatbelts’ sign goes off, I politely ask him if he wouldn’t mind moving to the aisle seat, which is also empty, so that we have more space. It seems so logical to me. If there are only two people in a row of three seats, you leave the middle seat free—it goes without saying—and I don’t even understand why I have to ask him.

“No, boy, if I move over, I won’t be able to sit next to you,” he replies with a slightly smirking smile.

I don’t know what to say. If it is a pick-up line, it is pretty direct. Who calls a stranger “boy” in the first place? Especially as I am not 15 anymore. But I must admit that, on the other hand, my ego is a bit bruised. I don’t know what to say, so I take the leaflet out of the seat pocket in front of me and start looking at the duty-free catalogue, without really looking at it.

The plane begins a right-hand turn heading north. I love taking off from Bergamo airport in this direction. Barely in the air, we are already over the mountains, and you can feel the engines working flat out to gain altitude and fly over the snow-capped peaks. I love flying and watching from above what seems to be nothing more than a miniature world.

I am on the right-hand side of the plane and the sun in the east is blinding me. So I pull down the window shade and sit up straight in my seat.

I brush against my neighbour’s shoulder and feel a sort of small electric shock run through my whole body. He is reading a book. This airline obviously does not have an in-flight entertainment system, which I had forgotten, so I haven’t brought anything with me. I decide to rest a bit, but I cannot manage it. My neighbour evokes a very peculiar feeling in me, one that is very hard to describe. Even with my eyes closed, his presence fills my whole being. Even without touching him, I feel as though I am glued to him.

It is a strange sensation. I feel as though I am uncomfortable, but that is not the case. On the contrary, I want to get closer to him, but I do not dare. He hasn’t looked up from his book and I do not know how to approach him.

“Sorry, I need to go to the toilets,” I ask him politely.

“No, boy, you’ll have to wait until we’ve arrived; I am busy,” he replies firmly but kindly, without looking up from his book.

And I do not even react. I don’t know why, but I realised he wasn’t going to stand up to let me past and that there was no point in insisting. I try to get a better look at him out of the corner of my eye. He must be in his late thirties. As well as his leather trousers, he is wearing a fairly tight white T-shirt. In his right ear, a small black earring with a stylised letter F. Around his bicep, he is wearing a sort of leather strap, like a bracelet but positioned higher up, hugging his bulging muscle.

I must not have been very discreet, because he closes his book, tucks it into the pocket in front of him and turns his head in my direction.

“So, Alessio, what are you going to do in Sweden?”

His question sparks a conversation during which I explain my situation to him. My broken relationship, my work problems, my doubts about my future, my plan to walk across Europe from the North Cape to my home, and finally my misadventures the night before with the night train.

I can tell he is genuinely interested in what I am saying, and I feel like I am talking non-stop.

“What about you?” I ask him, so as not to come across as a self-absorbed bloke.

“That is not the point, carry on with your story.” I carry on answering his questions and I am not really sure how, but I end up telling him I am gay, which seems to leave him completely unimpressed.

I realise that he is the one steering the whole conversation. I am just answering his questions, telling him the things he wants to know, and it feels completely natural. Even though the conversation is one-sided, it feels very balanced.

The steward walking up the aisle with his trolley interrupts our exchange by addressing Finn.

“Something to drink, Sir?”

“I’ll have tomato juice, a glass of red wine and the cheese and meat platter, please.”

“Very well, and for you, sir?” asks the steward, looking at me whilst preparing my neighbour’s order.

I quickly pull the menu out of the pocket in the seat in front of me to choose something, but Finn stops me by placing his hand on my thigh.

“He’ll have sparkling water and some crackers.”

Surprised, the steward looks at me and I confirm with a nod.

Finn pays for everything with his card and looks at me as if expecting something.

“Thank you,” I say to him. I feel almost a little humiliated thanking him when he didn’t even ask me what I wanted. But I am polite and well-mannered.

“In time, you’ll learn that you say, ‘Thank you, Sir.’”

“Thank you, Sir,” I reply without really thinking.

The flight continues, Finn still sitting in his seat, his muscular shoulders and arms spilling over into the adjacent seats, me sitting slightly sideways in mine to avoid being pressed up against him, even though I would love for my skin to brush against his.

He keeps asking me about my life, and I keep telling him my story, my adventures, my setbacks. I don’t know much about him. Taking advantage of a brief moment of silence, I take the plunge.

“And you, what are you doing on this plane?”

This time, Finn doesn’t throw the ball back at me. He quickly explains his background. A master’s in psychology, then a master’s and a PhD in physics. He worked as a teacher because he loves education, but the pay wasn’t worth it.

“And these days, you’re not allowed to give spankings anymore, so it is not worth it,” he says, staring at me with a smirk that makes me feel uncomfortable.

Then he explains that he set up a financial consultancy firm after developing a market analysis algorithm combining traditional objective indicators and, in his words, “different states of the human soul”. I nod at his explanations, but deep down I realise I haven’t understood a single thing. What I do know, however, is that he seems to be extremely intelligent. As well as being handsome.

He has been in Italy for a few days on business and is now heading home to the island of Orust, about an hour from Gothenburg. He explains that he works mostly from home and travels around Europe once or twice a month to visit clients.

I have obviously never heard of this island, but I must admit I don’t know much about this northern country, even though I am about to walk the length of it.

Finn’s explanations really put me at ease with this bloke. The more I learnt about him, the more I wanted to know.

But the flight from Italy to Sweden takes less than two hours, and it is already time to prepare for landing.

I open the panel on my window again. It is dark outside; I can barely see the ground, and when a gap appears in the clouds, all I can see is a dark expanse stretching into infinity. The plane is buffeted by gusts of wind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will soon be landing in Gothenburg; please stow your tray tables, return your seats to the upright position and fasten your seatbelts. Due to the weather conditions, we may have to divert to Stockholm if landing proves impossible.”

I can feel the tension rising in the cabin, and not a sound can be heard, save for the roar of the engines, whose revs are constantly changing, a testament to the battle the pilot is waging against the wind’s fury. For my part, a diversion to Stockholm would be rather convenient, but clearly the pilot has decided to attempt a landing in Sweden’s second city nonetheless.

I am not at all afraid of flying, but I have never experienced turbulence like this before. I tense up in my seat and cling to the armrests just as the plane lurches violently and my stomach churns.

Then I feel Finn’s hand rest on my left hand.

“Don’t worry, it is often like this here, but they’re used to it.”

The touch of his strong hand is as reassuring as it is unexpected. Finn doesn’t let go until the plane has finally touched down and the passengers, relieved to still be in one piece, applaud the pilot’s skill.

“Welcome to Sweden,” says Finn, looking past me out of the window.

The airport tarmac is battered by the wind; it is literally raining sideways. Watching the trees in the distance struggle to stay upright, I start to wonder if it was a good idea to embark on this adventure. I don’t think that, when I was planning this trip from my bedroom in 25-degree heat and bright sunshine, I ever imagined there could be a place where the weather would be this dreadful.

Once the plane has come to a halt at the gate, I get up following Finn. I only have a small bag that I have kept with me at my seat, containing my passport, some cash, my phone and a few bits and bobs. I thank the flight attendants and especially the pilot, with whom Finn exchanges a few words in Swedish.

I absolutely have to go to the toilets and head there immediately as soon as I am off the plane, before I have even gone to collect my bag from the baggage claim. I head for the first urinals I can find and unzip my trousers when I sense a presence beside me. Out of the row of eight urinals, Finn has chosen the one next to me. I would have moved, but it is too late – I really need to go. We both relieve ourselves, and I hear the powerful stream from my neighbour.

Of course, I am tempted to peek over the partition to catch a glimpse of his dick, but I do not dare. On the contrary, I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead so he doesn’t get the wrong idea. Yet I have the feeling he is staring at me.

Once we are finished, we head out towards the baggage reclaim area. The advantage of the European Union and the Schengen Area is that there are no more customs to go through, no more endless queues, no more paperwork. Baggage carousel number 6 is turning with a few suitcases on it, but I can’t see my bag. Several people seem annoyed.

“Wait here, boy, I’ll go and have a look,” says Finn.

I am flattered by the affectionate nickname he is given me. I feel like I am someone special to him, and the more I talk to him, the more I find him special.

After a brief exchange in Swedish with an airport official, he comes back to me looking a bit annoyed.

“They had a problem in Bergamo; they didn’t load all the luggage… My suitcase isn’t here, can you see your bag?”

“Nope,” I reply, fed up…

“They said that everything that was on the plane is here. Come on, follow me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, I naturally follow this tall, blond guy who’s walking with a determined stride. He heads towards the airline counter.

“Do you have a hotel for tonight?” he asks me, turning around as he walks.

“No, I thought I’d look for one when I got here,” I reply, hurrying behind him to try and keep up.

When we reach the counter, he has a brief exchange with the ground staff member, who hands him a form. I don’t understand Swedish and I have no clue what they are saying. I see him filling in one form, then a second. Then he turns to me.

“Come and sign,” he says rather curtly.

I walk up to the counter and look at the form, which is entirely in Swedish. I look up at Finn, whose expression makes it clear that instead of asking what it is about, I should take the pen he is holding out to me and sign where he is pointing. I do as I am told, and he hands the form back to the employee.

“Don’t worry, it can happen with this airline… Come on, boy, let’s go.”

Once again, I try to keep up with his hurried pace.

“Where are you off to? I am going to catch a bus or a taxi and find a place to stay.”

Finn stops and looks at me again with his charming smile. Now that he is standing in front of me, I can really see his height – he must be a good 10 cm taller than me.

“No need, you’re staying at my place tonight. I’ve sorted it out; they’ll deliver your luggage with mine to my place tomorrow.”

I am a bit taken aback, unsettled by his authoritative tone. Even though I quite like being led on trips – which used to annoy Filippo, who thought I didn’t do enough to organise things – Finn’s initiative leaves me sceptical. At no point during our conversation had he mentioned the possibility of putting me up for the night. I am about to politely decline when his eyes lock onto mine. My brain is racing. My sensible side tells me to be wary of a guy I don’t know, and that if there were a good script for a film that ends in a bad manner, this would be it. Yet in barely two hours of flying, Finn has managed to win my trust. And above all, I don’t know why, but I don’t want to say no to him and let him down. And ultimately, I want to keep spending time with him. Oh well, screw it, I need to stop overthinking and just follow my instincts and my vibe.

“Ah, ok, thanks, that is really nice of you, Finn,” I reply, sounding a bit silly.

Hearing my reply, Finn’s irritation vanishes; he stands beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle nudge to get me moving.

“You’ll see, you’ll be fine. I’ve got a lovely house by the sea, and I’ve got a guest room that no one’s ever complained about so far!”

Finn is still holding my shoulder as we walk down the stairs leading to the underground car park.

He guides me to the motorbike parking area where he approaches a red motorbike. I am no expert, but I recognise a Yamaha R1 when I see one. He opens the storage compartment under the seat and pulls out a black leather jacket with red stripes, which he puts on. The sight of Finn completely clad in leather and that motorbike doesn’t leave me indifferent; I can feel it in my trousers. Then he pulls out a second jacket, entirely black, and hands it to me.

“Here, put this on. It is a long ride, and the temperatures and weather here aren’t like in Italy.”

I take the jacket and put it on. It fits perfectly, as if it had been made for me. The smell of the leather only adds to my excitement. I have never really worn leather before, but I must admit that if I were to tick off my fetishes, leather would be right at the top of the list.

Then Finn pulls out two helmets, one of which he hands to me. I make a move to put it on, but Finn stops me and takes the helmet back.

“Wait, boy. You’ve got a choice to make. I think I’ve got you figured out, and despite what you might think, I don’t believe your trekking thing will bring you the satisfaction and freedom you’re seeking. I can offer you something more—a journey you’ve probably never taken before and one you won’t regret.  This journey will reveal your true personality, and I am convinced you’ll be able to find peace with yourself. If you don’t like it, you’re free to leave at any time. I can’t explain everything to you here and now, but are you ready to go on this journey with me? Do you trust me to guide you?”

I remain silent; I don’t understand what he is getting at. I try to think if this has anything to do with something he might have said to me on the plane, but I can’t see the connection. I am a bit unsettled by this bloke who, bit by bit, has managed to get me to agree of my own free will to go to his place, and who is offering me something more that I don’t understand, but which I feel drawn to and don’t want to refuse. Finn spoke those words, which make no sense to me, with such confidence, and his gaze is so piercing that I simply want to say yes to him, even though I don’t know what it is all about.

“Well?” he asks as I am trying to sort things out in my head.

Pressed by the question, I tell myself the same thing I told myself earlier at the airline counter: oh, what the hell, let’s follow my instincts.

“Er, yes, I’d like to.”

“Very good, boy, very good! Now get down on your knees.”

I am completely taken aback by this request—or rather, this order. But I don’t know if it is the frame of mind I have put myself in to accept this “journey” that I don’t understand, or if it is the authoritative and unquestionable tone of his command, but I don’t think twice and get down on my knees in front of him.

Finn turns around and takes a chain out of his motorbike’s top box, which he loops around my neck. As he is about to lock it with a fairly large padlock, Finn leans in and whispers in my ear.

“Welcome to Sweden, boy. From now on, I am Sir Finn to you, and you’ll obey my orders without question. Is that clear?”

“Er… yes,” I reply timidly.

“Yes who?” he says, still speaking into my ear as he tugs at my chain.

“Yes, Sir,” I reply respectfully.

It is just as Finn asks me to stand up that I feel my cock is rock hard in my trousers. I think Finn’s look tells me he hasn’t failed to notice.

“We’re going to have some fun, boy,” he says, holding my helmet as he straddles his motorbike. He starts the engine and motions for me to get on behind him. The seat of this racing bike is so narrow that I have no choice but to press myself against him. My crotch rubbing against his leather trousers only heightens my arousal…

To be continued …