“I thought that maybe, after class, we could go for a drink and maybe dinner.”
“That sounds great, Lex, but I can’t tonight. Maybe another night.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” If Captain Lex Brown, hunky black Air Force officer teaching the signatures class at the photographic interpretation course at Beale Air Force base, east of Yuba City in California was disappointed, he didn’t show it. I had been giving him every indication that I was interested. I did hope there would be another time. He was a hunk and a half and just a couple of years older than I was.
Yes, if we actually went on a date and he wanted to bed me, I’d already decided I’d let him. I wasn’t that hard to get, I could be randy at a wink from a good-looking and fit top, and I’d seen Brown in the base gym showers. He was a muscular god and hung like a stallion. My butt twitched just from looking at him.
Being sent to this course by the Agency and promised a complete change in career path if I did well in satellite photographic interpretation had been my reward for—and deliverance from, I hoped, the far more taxing and dangerous work in Sam Winterberry’s Candy Store operations. The Candy Store was a special unit of the CIA that combined the world’s two oldest professions, spying and prostitution, to run operations against the opposition. I had been one of the pieces of candy being dangled at men, and Sam had treated me as a piece. I had been used to suborn men the Agency wanted to turn and use, using sex. I had done a full share of lying on my back and opening my legs to turn men for the nation.
I hadn’t given up on sex, but Sam, after four dangerous missions with four male targets, which some side couplings with others involved, had, at last, granted my request for a change in career paths within the Agency. But that didn’t mean I’d given up on sex with men. So, I hoped that Captain Lex Brown wouldn’t give up on that offer of a drink and dinner and then hopefully something else just because I couldn’t do it tonight. I had made arrangements to get away tonight. The photographic interpretation class was intense. I needed to break away for a night.
I left the classroom area that was buried in a hangar behind a hangar on one of the Beale Air Base’s airstrips. I walked from the back hangar to the front, in which two SR71 photo recon jets were parked. I nodded to the Hispanic E-6 Tech Sergeants, Hector Herra, who was working maintenance on one of the Blue Birds, and walked out into the first sunlight I’d seen that day. Classes had started before the sun came up and there were no windows in the classroom area. It was a top-secret vault. It was one big SCIF.
I hopped into my Mustang and drove the short distance to the BOQ where all of the students except for the married ones were housed. I packed enough gear for the weekend and drove the Mustang to a Walmart lot in Marysville, between the base and Yuba City on Highway 70, and exchanged my car for the Honda Civic I’d rented. On the way south on 70, I stopped at a McDonald’s for a burger. After that, it was south again on 70 to the much smaller burg of Pluma Lake and an older motor court off the highway, Branson’s Cabins, which was just that, a gas station fronting on a line of six cabins, renting by the hour, night, week, or month, depending on how long the sex couples or migrant farm workers renting them needed a cheap room and squeaky bed.
The squeaky bed was very much what I had in mind. The sound of the moaning bed coils in rhythm with a man’s dick inside me doing its thing was arousing to me. It helped me perform better in bed. It was a fetish from all those seedy hotels foreign spies had taken me to and laid me while CIA agents recorded my taking for blackmail use.
I’d rented one of the cabins for a month. I’d see how that would go. I’d only used it twice in the first three weeks. As I parked well away from the cabin I’d rented, I looked around the lot. Other than a Camaro, with a hunky Hispanic guy at the wheel parked by the end unit, no one was around that I could see. That was good. That was the way I wanted it.
I took my overnight bag out of the back of the Honda and entered the cabin I’d rented. I shut but didn’t lock the door. I stripped and went into the bathroom and took a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, with just a towel around my waist, I found I wasn’t alone. The Hispanic bruiser who had been sitting in the Camaro was there, stripped down to his briefs. He might have stripped all of the way if I had taken a bit longer in the bathroom.
He was a tank—a heavily muscular body builder. Pushing forty and all solid man. Bald and thuggish, covered with tattoos. He stripped off his briefs and I saw that he was there for action. He was one big bull and was in full erection. He had restraints and a hand whip clutched in one of his hands. I got hot on role playing and pretending. Tonight he was a Colombian drug lord, there to punish and snuff me. I went hard.
I didn’t have time to react to the intrusion and the Hispanic hunk knew what he wanted. He was on me in a second. Big and muscular, he was more than I could have handled if I wanted out of this. I didn’t want out of this, though. I wanted to pretend to resist but then be taken hard. The Hispanic hunk knew what the scene was to be.
I struggled but backhands across the face and a fist to the solar plexus had me on the ground, winded, and on my knees. My wrists were tied behind my back. He grabbed a handful of hair, pulled my face into his groin, and growled, “Suck it and make it good, or else. Bite me and I’ll snuff you.”
There it was, the threat to take it all the way—to use me up. I went harder.
I’d always been a submissive who was heated up by dominating control. I was getting dominating control.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whimpered.
He slapped me across the face and growled, “I said suck it.”
I took his cock in my mouth and gave him head.
I was put on my belly on the bed, my arms over my head, my wrists restrained to the headboard, as he whipped my buttocks, back, and legs—hard enough to raise welts; not hard enough to bring blood. I panted hard and, because of what I’d lived before and what I had found had taken me to the height before, I cried out, “Yes, yes, beat me. Punish me. Take me to the shed!”
I ground my body into the bed, making the bed coils sing. Squeak, squeak. He made the whip sting. Again and again. The bed coils sang as I writhed away from the strike of the whip. I got harder.
Sometimes in what I did for Sam Winterberry and the Candy Store unit, I had come near to real death at the hands of the men I was working on turning. And in those moments, I had reached the apex of sexual arousal. My desires had been suborned by my past.
My surrender revved him up. There was no romance in the man or any concern much to prepare or please me. It was all about him. He was on top of me, his knees encasing mine.
“Take it, bitch!” he growled.
A beefy arm went under my belly and pulled me up. The hand of the other arm, though, pressed me down with his fist buried between my shoulder blades. Holding my legs close together with his knees, he mounted me, penetrated my now-tightened hole with a thick, long, erection, and fucked the shit of me.
For seconds, he put me on my back, my wrists again tied to the headboard, spread and bent my legs, and put my feet flat on the mattress. Nudging his knees between my thighs, he thrust up into me and for the next fifteen minutes, the headboard bounced off the wall in vigorous rhythm as he fucked me to hell.
The music of the night. A squeaky bed. I moaned from arousal.
When he was done and had gone to the shower, leaving me panting and moaning on my back, unable to close my legs, he returned, drying himself off with the towel I’d come out of the bathroom with. He dressed in his working uniform and released my restraints.
“Same time next Tuesday?” he asked.
“Sure,” I answered, that deciding whether I’d rent the cabin for another month.
“Great lay,” Air Force E-6 Tech Sarge Hector Herrera said, as he strutted out of the cabin, climbed back in his Camaro, and drove back to Beale Airbase to baby his SR71s.
I groaned, rolled out the bed, satiated for the moment, and went back to the shower.
Hector was a hunk and was good about giving it to me as I liked it. I wanted to be controlled and commanded and forced and conquered. I wondered if the black bull, Captain Lex Brown, would do the same?
It was all thanks to my time with Sam Winterberry’s Candy Store unit. I had begged to leave the Candy Store unit because it was so rough, but now I was seeking out the same cruelty I’d found with that unit to achieve maximum arousal.
* * * *
“How about this evening. Or should I stop asking?”
“No, Captain. This evening would be fine. I was going to go to the gym, but, yes, I’d like that drink, and tonight would be fine.”
It had been another exhausting day in learning the signatures of Russian equipment that could be discerned from satellite photography coverage: the turret shapes of the various tanks in play or the extra little length on the nose of a bomber that determined that it was air-refuellable and thus long-range, which put it in the controlled strategic weapon category.
The hunky black army officer who was our instructor had asked me to go for a drink with him after class again. I knew he wanted more than that. He was a handsome, muscular stud, and I was in the mood, so tonight it would be if he wanted to take it to that level. I didn’t read him as a rough fucker, though, and I worried a bit whether I now could be aroused sufficiently without that element at play.
“I could go to the gym too. I belong to one close to my apartment in Maryville. It’s a club, not just a gym. We could catch a drink there after a workout.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I answered.
“We could park at my apartment complex and I’d drive back to the gym.”
“Sounds like progress on the plan,” I said. I didn’t need any more of a signal that the date, if that’s what this was becoming, would end at his apartment—and in his bed.
He gave me a searching look. “You will really go with me?” he asked. “I’ve heard . . . and have wondered.”
“I suspect what you’ve heard is true, Captain. I’ll be happy to go with you.”
What he was really asking was for a “yes” to go with him all of the way. He was a hunk. I had seen him in the buff; I knew he was a bull. He’d signaled enough during the course that he was gay, figured I was, and was interested—even that he was a top and I a submissive. It was mainly a matter of whether I’d go under a black. I knew I would—and had—and had found them, in the balance, to be more filling than the average white guy or Hispanic. Or Asian, for that matter. There was an old adage that blacks were bigger, on average, than other guys and this was criticized as racism, but I’d gone with blacks and found it true in my experience. I also never went with a black guy who didn’t want it to be true.
Thanks to Sam and the Candy Store, I’ve gone under my share of Asians. Blacks weren’t generally, as demanding and cruel as Arabs, but I didn’t see all that many Arabs around this region of California.
But would he be cruel enough to satiate me? I’d been to the sexual mountaintop. I wanted to go there every time. The Candy Store had conditioned me to that. Spies we went after tended to be the bad guys, and bad guys tended to be rough in bed.
Marysville was a smaller town between Beale Airbase and Yuba City. The gym—Lex was right that it was more of a club, a gay club, than a gym—was a windowless expanse in a warehouse district. There only were guys there. Some were on the make, but most were gawkers, checking out the eye candy. Lex Brown and I were eye candy while we worked out. Since we worked out together, other guys didn’t hit on either of us.
We were both serious bodybuilders and got our separate workouts done, spotting each other, quickly and efficiently. We had a gallery of voyeurs as we did so. It was obvious that Lex was making me from how he touched me while we worked out together—and then more so when we showered in the communal shower afterward, again with other guys watching us and no doubt hoping we were headed for the sauna to put on a performance for them.
We didn’t go to the sauna, though. Lex just made sure I found out he was hung like an elephant while we were soaping up and rinsing off a couple of showerheads away from us, and then we dried off, dressed, and went for that drink.
“I read your file,” Lex said when we were seated at a table in the shadows of the bar and drinking beer. “They have us check out the students we’ll have.”
“And how often do you have your students?” I asked. He’d put a hand on my knee under the table. I let it stay there. “I’m surprised they let you read up on me,” I added. “I’m Agency and you’re army.”
“I’ve been Agency,” he said. “I have all of the clearances. I knew before you got here that I’d have an interest in you. The files have photos.” The hand had moved to my inner thigh. I opened my stance to let him know the hand was welcome.
“I wanted to be pretty sure before I . . . you know . . .”
“Before you put a move on me?” I asked.
“Yes. Do you mind? Are you interested?” The hand moved to my basket and I put my hand on his—to hold it there, not to try to brush it away. “Also, I wanted to do the gym thing with you so that you could see what I was swinging and could back out if it was too much for you.”
“I like what you’re swinging, and, yes, of course I’m interested.”
“Even though I’m black—and still, after seeing . . . in the shower?”
“Especially because you’re black . . . especially because of what you showed in the shower.”
“Anything you have a question about—that might make you hold back?”
“I don’t know if the files you read tell how my work for the Agency changed what I need. I’ve been conditioned to need something challenging.”
His hand was under my waistbands and had closed on my balls. He separated my balls, lacing his fingers through them, and squeezed them. I almost yelped. My eyes watered.
“Any more questions about I’ve learned you need?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I squeaked, and he loosened his hold.
“Would you like to go to a movie now?”
What I really wanted was to go to his place and let him bang the shit out of me. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
“This is a club. They have a movie room here.”
“Well, if it would put off—”
“It’s a friendly club. It’s anything goes in the movie room.”
Sweet. They did have a small movie theater, and they showed just the kind of movies one would expect in a gay club. I didn’t see all that much of the movie, though, because I spent most of the time in the dark, sitting next to Lex, with my face in his lap, with my lips traveling up and down a tower and he spent his time handing mine. We settled, with other guys eyeing us as much as they were each other and the porn flick on the screen. Lex put his arm around me and we kissed. He unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers, and pulled them and my briefs down to my ankles. We continued to neck while he worked me with his hand. He distended and squeezed my balls again until I was groaning and my eyes were watering again.
I slouched down in the seat and rolled my pelvis up to give his hand and fingers access to my hole. When he’d explored me there and gotten me to panting and moaning, he cupped the back of my neck with his hand, pulled my face down to his crotch, where he’d already released and was stroking himself, and I gave him head, challenged to get even half of his length and girth inside my throat. He held me until I was gagging at all he had stuffed in me, but he just kept holding me down.
He didn’t come there, although I had while he was stroking me and finger fucking me.
“Let’s go back to my apartment,” he murmured. We did.
Lex was a conqueror, and he liked to control from the bottom. I went with it, enjoying myself at his display of forcefulness, domination, and cruelty. He worked me open with a horse-cock-shaped dildo first but before I was open enough from that for him to slide inside easily, he mounted me and stuffed me while holding me captive in his muscleman embrace. I yowled my glorious suffering.
Yes, he’d carefully read my files showing where my work for the Candy Store had taken my sexual need. And, yes, he was among the other blacks who ranked high on length and girth in my experience.
The first fuck was missionary style following dildo work, but then he wanted to be on the bottom, with me on top, facing the ceiling, in the crab position, with him holding my waist between his beefy hands and pull me on and off the cock. Then it was a Cowboy, with me leaning back and grasping his knees and using the leverage of the heels of my feet to rise and fall, and, finally, a reverse Cowboy, with me leaning back, palms pressed into the hollow of his shoulders and fucking myself using the leverage of the balls of my feet.
Afterward, as we lay stretched against each other, recovering and me hoping that there would be more rough fucking, he spoiled it.
“As I said, I read your file. I know what the Candy Store is. I know that you don’t really retire from it if they don’t want you to.”
I froze and desire was cooled off. “So?” I asked.
“Sam has work for you to do here. A couple of men to do you as a reward for helping the Candy Store out.”
“Sam?”
“Sam Winterberry. As I said, I’m in the know.”
“Are you to be my handler too?” I asked, not caring if he heard the tightness in my voice. So, Sam had lied to me. I wasn’t being released by the Candy Store to go into a new career pattern. I was still to be at the beck and call of the Candy Store.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “The base commander needs a reward. He wants to fuck you. And you play championship tennis, don’t you? I know you do. I’ve read your file. There’s someone else we need on our side.”
“And when does this start?” I asked.
“General Holloway is having a pool party this Saturday. His wife is on a buying trip to Paris. And the tennis match is the next day.”
Terrific. Back in the candy jar. But so much for tonight. Silently, I rolled off the bed, got a shower, dressed, and left. There wasn’t much else to say to Lex after that other than to get times and places.
* * * *
“Oh, fuck, you’re in deep. Work me; screw me. Oh, shit, you’re doing me good!”
I was giving General Holloway the words I knew he wanted to hear. He was doing me OK, if not quite up to the level I was telling him he was. But I’d done this many times before for the government, pleasing a man they wanted me to please. It had been a surprise that the Agency was cultivating an airbase chief, but that was their concern, not mine. Sam just told me that they got favors at Beale Airbase and would get even more by offering me up for the general to screw. And he was screwing me as good as he could.
He was in the Air Force, but you’d think from the fetish he was playing out now, he was in the cavalry. He was an equestrian. I was his horse. He had me on my hands and my knees, a belt lassoed around my neck, with him tugging on the reins. He was mounted on my ass, riding me hard, and flicking at my flanks with a riding crop. He was a big man, pretty fit, in a Marine sort of way, for a man in his mid-fifties. He wasn’t hung but he was maintaining a thick-enough erection. He’d been a redhead, now mostly gray, although some red still appeared in his chest and pubic hair. He had the florid complexion of a natural redtop and went almost beet red in the throes of vigorous sex. To be able to go hard for him, I thought of him in terms of a conquering Viking. The role of a ridden horse were arousing enough for me. No manners were required. He was thick around the middle, but not yet fat. He worked out. He was hard-bodied for a dude his age. And he managed vigor in the ride.
With just a little more cruel snap to the riding crop, I might have been able to be more up for him. Not entirely feigning, I cried out, “I’m giving out. You’re too much a man for me,” and I collapsed on the bed. It was mostly that I thought he’d gotten the time he deserved. What I wanted to cry out was “Whip me harder,” but that only would have prolonged the session.
He rode me down to the mattress, rolled me on my back, grabbed my ankles and spread my legs. He knelt between my thighs, ran his hands under me, cupping by buttocks and raising my pelvis to his crotch. The fetish had helped him keep it hard.
“Yes, yes,” I called out, when I realized he wasn’t finished but just was changing position. “Put it in again. I want your cock. Fuck me. Screw the hell out of me!”
“Ankles on shoulders,” he barked. Panting and groaning, a bit more dramatic than I felt, I complied. He put it in again. He screwed the hell out me in as far as a fit fifty-five-year-old can perform. He buried his cock inside me and completed the fuck. I lay there, arching my back, stretching my arms out, clutching at the bedspread, showing exhaustion, and murmuring, “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.” I felt him more this time than when he was playing jockey and concentrating on form. This time he dug deep and stayed long, as I clutched his buttocks with my hands and held him inside him, not letting him withdraw very far before the next thrust. I cried out in earnest and honestly, “FUCKKK! I’m coming!” and then I did. He did so a few strokes later, as well.
I’d been told to give him a good time and he rolled off the bed smiling. He stood there at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. I gave him a good look. If he wanted to and could come back on top of me, I was told to let him—but not to push it if he couldn’t get it up again. To let him know I was game, I lay on my back, spread and bent my legs, and fingered my hole with a hand, spreading myself in case he wanted to come back on top.
“You’re an angel, a fucking piece of Michealangelo work,” he said.
“You’re a big-cock stud. A buck. A bull,” I responded. He obviously liked to hear that. He grasped his cock and wagged it at me.
He did want to top me again, and he did come on top of me again. He still was half hard and was able to penetrate, but we both knew he was essentially done. I clutched his buttocks with one hand and hard stroked myself between our bellies. I went into an “Oh, my god I’m coming” act, writhed under him, and then feigned coming, so he at least could claim to have been able to bring me off again.
We were in an attic bedroom of the commander’s house on the base. It probably was supposed to be servant’s quarters, but it obviously was where the general brought his young men when he could. A bathroom was attached. When he got off the bed, he stood at the foot again, making sure I was watching him as he pulled on his swimming trunks and the pool robe he’d been wearing. He wanted me to praise his physique.
I lay, stretched out and panting, doing the “I’ve been fucked so good I can’t close my legs” bit. “Shit, you’ve kept yourself in great shape,” I said, as if on cue, “And I mean more than your cocking technique.”
“You can use the attached bathroom,” he said. “There are back stairs. Use them. There’s an alley beyond the back fence in the pool area. Use it. Don’t be seen. Be back here at 10:00 tonight. Come in the way you go out. Don’t be seen.”
“You want me tonight?”
“Yes, I want to use you tonight.”
He hadn’t taken Viagra for the pool party that afternoon. He took it that night when I came back, though, and that night I didn’t have to pretend that he was taxing me. He remained hard for hours.
The party that afternoon had been very private. It had been a pool party. I hadn’t been told that, so I didn’t bring a suit. It turned out that a young officer and I weren’t meant to wear suits. We were there to entertain a few friends of the general’s naked and cavorting around in the pool. The surprise guest—for me—was Sam Winterberry, who I had thought was the boss I’d left behind when I transferred from the Agency Candy Story unit to photographic interpretation. But it turned out I hadn’t gotten rid of Sam as a boss when he needed me.
The Agency needed something from General Holloway, who had a sweet tooth for young guys just like me, or so Sam said, and when he could get me aside, Sam said there would be this general to do and another guy, an Arab, later in the week and then I’d be all done.
All done with the Candy Store. Yeah, well, I’d heard that before.
The general wanted to see two young, fit male bodies going hot and heavy, so, before the party wound up and to get himself wound up to take me up in his attic bedroom, he and his bodies sat around watching Bud, the young, blond Air Force pilot, sitting on the side of the pool and me, standing in the pool, giving him a blow job. Then they watched me climb into Bud’s lap, facing him, him grasping my waist between his hands, and pulling me on and off his cock, while I stroked my joy stick to a very vocal release.
Sam lied about this time with the general and one time with a visiting Arab to be all that was left of my contract. The general had me, repeatedly, in that attic bedroom of his for the remainder to time I was at the PI course at Beale.
* * * *
I met Lex Brown at the officer’s club tennis courts on Saturday morning. He was to be my partner. I knew we’d be playing a visiting Persian Gulf military honcho whose country was somehow tied into the primary work of Beale Airbase, which was photoreconnaissance by plane and satellite. I also had been briefed that part of his hospitality kit was providing a rent-boy for him—and that I was that rent-boy. The Arab was to think that this was all through the U.S. Air Force, when, in reality, it was under the sponsorship of the CIA’s Candy Store Unit, and the sheik was signing up for more cooperation than he knew he was.
The surprise to me was that the sheik showed up with Sam Winterberry, the chief of the Agency’s Candy Store Unit, as his partner. The sheik, Mohammed bin Hasan, was younger than I had thought. He probably was in his early thirties. He had a pot belly from rich food and drink, but was otherwise hard-bodied and knew his way around a tennis court. He had the aspect of a man who worked out constantly even while overindulging at the buffet table and bar. He had a pouty, self-indulgent look about him, a man expecting and receiving privilege. My impression would be that he'd be cruel in bed and the act would be all about him and his base desires. Though overweight, I bet he had stamina. That was OK with me.
The day was hot and we played skins, with the sheik barely able to keep his eyes off me. That said, he was an expert player and always managed to get to the ball and return it well. The fat was there, but underneath was the steel of muscle. Brown and Winterberry were evenly matched. I had been a collegiate champion and was pretty sure I was better than the sheik. But I also gauged that the sheik didn’t like to lose and, because his retainers wanted to keep their heads, didn’t often lose. I wanted to keep my head too. So, Brown and I lost, but we kept the score close enough to satisfy everyone.
I did briefly wonder if the man would be more cruel in bed if I beat him in tennis. I bet he would. But I’d been told how to play it, so I made sure we didn’t win.
In the showers afterward, the sheik came up a bit of a disappointment for me in the endowment area, although he was quite pleased about having won the match and was equally pleased with seeing me in the buff, in the showers, and doing what I had to do to pose for him and to give him the “fuck me” eye routine. The pot belly didn’t help, but he also was slightly under standard in the equipment department. We, of course, wouldn’t let that get in the way and I had my own ways to make up for men who didn’t make me immediately go hard. I could give them such a good time they didn’t know I wasn’t that much into it. I had a mental substitution routine I went through when necessary. In this case, I substituted Lex Brown for the sheik in my mind. Brown was more than sufficient as a mental substitution.
I started the thought process as Brown guided us to the private-wing studio apartment in the guest bachelor officers’ quarters building next to the officer’s club. I watched the black captain’s bulbous butt cheeks roll as we walked, and I was starting to go hard when we were shown into the BOQ unit and left there alone. The sheik did have a good preparation technique, though, and I went hard as I lay at the foot of the bed on my back, holding my legs raised and spread, and he knelt between my thighs and sucked me off and ate out my ass.
From there he turned cruel, tying off my wrists on the headboard, turning me over on my belly and whipping my back, buttocks, and thighs to bring himself to erection as he no doubt did with retainers and maybe even slaves back in the Persian Gulf. He didn’t know and probably didn’t care, but the cruelty served to arouse and harden me too.
He mounted me and rode me from above and behind, grabbing a yank of my hair and arching my torso painfully back into his chest as he bounced up and down on me. His cock was in there, but not testing. I concentrated on what Brown had put in me and managed to groan and moan as I needed to to convince the sheik he was king. He was cruel enough in technique to lift me up to arousal heaven, though.
After a while he dismounted, turned me over, slapped me a couple of times on the face and punched me on the torso with his fists, softening me up to where I begged him for the cock just to distract him from beating me. He put my ankles on his shoulders, penetrated, and fucked me in the missionary position while clutching my throat and engaging in rough breath play.
When I could catch my breath, I cried out in unfulfilled frustration that I wanted one of my hands released so I could rub myself off as he edged me again and again, “Do it. Finish me. For god’s sake, make me come!” But he ignored me. I was there for his pleasure, not mine.
He came. I didn’t. He didn’t care that I hadn’t come. He showered in the en suite bathroom without untying me. He dressed and left without saying anything. I lay there, stretched out, my legs spread and bent in a feigned “you fucked me so good I can’t close them” attitude. I had panted and whimpered more than I needed to to leave him with the impression that he was a real stud, which he wasn’t. He left satisfied. He left me uncompleted. He got what he wanted. It didn’t matter that I was left needing to be finished.
I was finished, though—thank the gods for that. I didn’t mind the rent-boy aspect of the job if I got off on it.
Sam Winterberry came into the room after Captain Brown had met the sheik at the door and taken him away.
“Good boy,” Winterberry said. “He enjoyed it. We’re pressing for a satellite tracking station in his country. I think that put him over the edge.”
“Terrific,” I said. I know that had a sarcastic edge to it, and I didn’t care. “He didn’t bother to untie me,” I said, nodding to my wrists still tied to the headboard, fully expecting Sam to take care of that. He didn’t.
“I get the impression he didn’t fully do you either. He looked a little substandard in the showers.”
“No he didn’t bring me off,” I admitted. “And he was more than a little deficient in the cock department.”
Sam wasn’t paying attention to my gripes. He was humming and stripping himself off. There was nothing, even for a man in his late fifties, substandard about Sam Winterberry. He was in elite Marine condition, he was hung like a stallion, and he was in raging erection.
“We can’t have that,” he declared. “You were looking mighty fine on the tennis court, boy. I nearly busted a nut there myself and the sheik’s tongue was hanging out—unfortunately, lower than his dong was. I’m glad to see you’ve kept in top flight sexy condition.”
In short order he was on the bed, between my thighs, and I was arching my back and crying out to the ceiling as he grabbed my waist between his hands, pulled me into his groin, thrust up inside me, and immediately started vigorous and deep pumping.
He more than made up for the sheik. He was as cruel as the sheik, but he made sure that I enjoyed the fuck as much as he did, and he satisfied me. Over the next hour and more, he made me come—again and again and again.
It was a disappointment that I hadn’t been freed from service in the Agency Candy Store Unit when I was needed—but the job had its compensations.
Afterward I asked, “Are you ever going to let me free?”
His only answer, which I guess was an answer, was, “We don’t have many guys on staff who want to suffer from it like you do. And almost no one gets out of the Candy Store Unit alive as long as they are useful to us.”
