Actions of Man on Covert Mission

Below Deck On the Mediterranean To Fields of Battle

The Parisian Seducer was supernatural. Numerous wise remarks of ancient provenance were thoroughly imprinted in Marco’s brain thanks to words spoken and the simultaneous expert hand-job with just the right amount edging. Knowledge, in body and spirit, maybe that is all the same?

The odd thing was that when Marco began to describe the details of his task and the dangerous Mitya, Jean had not been interested to listen. Jean had kept on saying that Marco had what was needed, and something about that the future was not written and the river ahead was not for old men like Jean to navigate. Some ancient poetry, simply put, to smugly dismiss a ‘crude American’, or something like that, Marco suspected.

Either Jean was too senior to be bothered by these things nowadays. He had perhaps seen an opportunity to play with a big dick and fondle heavy balls, and he used me like a common toy, a hunk of meat, an object for his base desires and stiff joints to come alive, Marco thought.

Or, more ominously, Marco considered, Jean knew about Mitya, maybe even admired him and his craft, and now Jean was helping Mitya to set a trap for more exalted meat. Never trust anyone entirely, and never underestimate an apex power bottom, Marco reminded himself.

Before leaving Jean’s apartment, Jean had given Marco two artefacts from the vast collection. 

“For your journey, and the obstacles you shall encounter”, he had said mysteriously.

The first gift was a metallic cock-ring, decorated with exquisite engravings. A supremely capable Primus Pilus of the Roman legion had been gifted it from a Chieftain of Northern tribes of the shores of the Baltic. The gift had been considered so valuable, the unnamed commander had concluded his distinguished service and ensured the northern territories were declared sacred and to be left unmolested. Exactly why the ring had such value the story did not tell.

Evidently, one did not become a Chieftain of Northern tribes or the centurion high-command without having a sizeable manhood, because this ring is the first proper ring that really fit well around Marco’s full girth.

The second gift was an old notebook on places of the ancient world with deep roots of manly mystery and tradition. Lists of tribes, villages and hand drawn maps of caves and hidden paths where armies of sweaty Hoplites supposedly had enjoyed orgies and invented new ways of power, knowledge and masculine prowess. Multiple unknown authors had contributed to the book over the centuries judging by language, style and handwriting. The Parisian Seducer had refused to disclose how the book had come into his possession, and responded in no other way than with a stereotypical French cold shoulder.

Marco kept it for later. Someone ought to make good money selling tourist trips to these sites, he thought, but he payed little attention to the book’s mystical elements. He placed his holy card depicting Saint Sebastian to mark his progress through the pages of the old and strange texts. 

Marco had two or so weeks to contemplate Jean’s words, browse the book, and acquaint himself with the features of the cock-ring. He had decided to go to Alexandria in northern Egypt. That ancient city was nowadays at the sharp edge of geopolitical calculus, a possible gateway to Eastern Europe, and where a handful of cash could open any door. So a good place to figure out Mitya’s movements and whereabouts. 

In order to approach the city under cover, Marco had generously bribed a captain of a ship exporting French goods (mostly food, wine and whale oil) to Egypt. Marco would remain hidden below deck, in the cargo hold, as the ship travelled south, then turned east and across the Mediterranean. He could then sneak into Alexandria without arousing too much attention.

The captain had informed Marco that there were two more persons being smuggled. Two Egyptian men, or so he said, who had worked as servers in an invitation-only English gentlemen’s club, were in dire need to return discreetly to their country. Something about a scandal that had to be contained. The captain made no attempt to hide his distaste.

Marco did not mind a bit of company. The cargo hold was warm, so for the duration of the voyage Marco was naked but for his crucifix necklace. As were the two young men. They had very classical physiques, pleasing to the eye, descendants surely of the ancient imperial tastes and aesthetics of Egypt. And if that was not sufficient enticement, they were free to drink an entire case of French red wine, eat fresh figs and a whole stack of chocolate, not to mention the abundance of spare time they had in that tight, dimly-lit space.

However, Marco soon learnt the two Mediterranean men had not had cash to bribe the captain with. Their manner of payment was in providing services to select sailors on that slow voyage across the seas. A bit of voyeurism can be fun, Marco reasoned, and every night when the sailors came down, four at a time, Marco stayed out of sight, but able to observe the mounting, fucking and old-fashioned spit-roasting through a hole. 

At first there was a great deal of stimulation to be had. The fucking was rough and steady, the moans and whimpering delivered at a high pitch. There was something appealing to see these greasy, ugly and crude sailors have their ways with the two handsome and refined guys. The young southern men, with their sweaty and smooth alabaster skin were not virgins, for sure, but they at least seemed unacquainted to rough manhandling. They were reduced to tight, quivering holes required to earn. 

“I should introduce them to some New York boys I have drilled this last year. Those boys may have a trick or two to share on how to handle rough thrusting into any and all holes… Jimmy, or was it Steve? Cannot remember their names, and why bother because they were bodies among bodies to be enjoyed and help to diffuse anger and boredom”, Marco thought as he listen to the duet of muffled inharmonic vocals of rough spit-roasting.

Somewhere not far from the Strait of Gibraltar, though, Marco’s mood changed. There was something wrong with how these two handsome guys were handled. The French sailors were men without honour and grace. They would no doubt have fucked farting pigs if that was what had been the cargo. For all their pseudo-masculine mannerisms, Marco saw through the act: the sailors were weak pathetic men, flaccid in spirit, simple in body.

It is a fact, discovered in every great civilization, that honourable and strong men cannot help but to merge in spirit if they merge bodily, or vice versa, merge bodily if they merge in spirit. That is of course why no Platonic friendships really can exist between strong men, there is always an irreducible sexual component the moment they start to truly share. Men either love, create, empower and carry the weight of the world, together as duty. Or men hate, steal and corrode the foundations of honourable life. Weak men therefore degrade their sexual prowess into nothing but uncaring thrusts and violent penetrations, which hurts and harms all. The greatness of a civilization depends acutely on how well it can act on these timeless truths.

In his heart, in his stomach, and deep within the balls, Marco could feel these truths, along with the duty to act. So one stormy night after navigating past Tangiers, when the sailors all had to work through the night, Marco reached over, placed his big hands, gentle and reassuring, on the handsome young men’s naked backs. He pulled them close, embraced them, carefully pressed their heads against his strong chest. The two guys followed along, wary at first, but then they heard the calm heart beat from within Marco’s warm, strong, naked body, and they snuggled up even closer. This was the first generous, empowering act they had felt since they had been forced away from the English aristocratic love nest in which they had been desired and prized performers.

“I can empower them. I must. I desire to give them this gift… of strength”, Marco thought, and he began to kiss and caress.

It soon transitioned to gentle stroking. Marco’s two large palms grabbed the hard dicks and massaged and played. This was the expert touch of a strong man, so the two guys reflexively submitted to it. They both reached over to feel and marvel at Marco’s sizeable dick. This was at a whole different level than the semi-erect penis of some English viscount.

Doing two guys at the same time creates so many more opportunities. Marco knew from numerous previous sex acts, that two guys did not simply mean double the number of pretty places to penetrate and stimulate. Rather it meant one can fill the boys with anticipation and desire and intense feelings of connection as they witness each other’s pleasures and discoveries. This is a corollary of elementary geometry.

Bes and Ibrahim (playing is a great way to learn names) soon proved to be natural born bottom buddies, one of the strongest bonds two men can form. They worshipped Marco’s dick together, from opposite sides. Their tongues moved up and down the dick, around it, and all over it, while frequently Bes’ and Ibrahim’s mouths joined in a kiss with a hard and powerful part of Marco pulsating somewhere in-between the two mouths.

And in the dimly lit, secluded cargo hold, one boy would kiss, caress and tend to both Marco and his buddy while the other boy was on all fours, on his back, on his side, or any of the other numerous positions, and in that state getting carefully drilled by Marco. Two bottom buddies together make for more fun, since they help each other to even greater pleasure. 

Spanking two firm butts at the same time, grabbing them with both hands, it just seems so natural, Marco thought. One butt for each hand. As self-evident as Euclid’s axioms — the first four ones, that is. A well directed palm against a smooth boy butt is an art form few truly are able to engage in. Done well and the action makes that wonderful part of the body take up even more attention in the mind of the bottom. It is an exchange of love and strength.

Also, kissing freshly spanked buttocks, as they radiate with heat and rosy hypnotic waves, and to further heighten that moment of tenderness between top and bottom, that is sexual artistry Marco was practicing with great skill. But of course, the spanking preceding it had to be firm yet caring. Strong, is the right word for it. Marco lost his sense of time as he spanked, kissed, licked, sucked, caressed the exquisite buttocks. 

Bes had really perky and full buttocks that short men who are a bit plump so often do. They vibrated and waved so sweetly to the strong touch from Marco. They bounced back when Marco sucked on them. Ibrahim was leaner and his butt was built of almost perfectly arched muscles, nearly as if drawn with a pair of compasses — the slight deviations from perfect geometry making the buttock even more pleasing to eye and spirit. They lightly parted when slapped to reveal for just a moment that tender spot in-between. They became warm and convulsing when Marco pressed his tongue hard against them.

Marco was a self-acknowledged lover of butts, a connoisseur of squeezable rear ends. There was so much to be discovered and explored. Sipping wine, spreading perky guy butt, tickling, tasting and probing all deliciousness at hand… this was the reminder Marco needed of what sexual connection could feel like.

The two young men’s strength and endurance improved quickly. Though Marco would have loved to rips the balls off the sailors when they came down for their nocturnal dirt, discretion was required. Before and after each session with the greasy sailors, Marco, Bes and Ibrahim would play, explore, learn, heal and connect. The two guys could soon command their asses and minds at levels that allowed them to endure.

The three men in the secluded cargo hold formed a bond as only men can, almost entirely non-verbal. Marco could not help but feel a certain pride in Bes’ and Ibrahim’s development. They were still going to need strong masculine guidance for some time before they were men of strength, but at least they would not be corrupted by the onslaught of weakness their unfortunate circumstance had condemned them to.

The exact space and time was hard to known when travelling within the belly of the ship. The first stop was supposed to be Alexandria, and the captain had promised to alert Marco once they turned south from the Greek islands on their final approach. By now they ought to be getting close, Marco thought. But he had to stay hidden so not to risk being seen by a member of the crew who might decide to sell the information about a suspicious passenger.

“Marco… Marco…”, Ibrahim was tapping insistently on Marco’s shoulder and woke him up after the latest session of bonding. Ibrahim signalled to Marco to be quiet and listen.

There was noise outside the hull. Someone speaking Russian, Marco noted. What are they saying? Marco could not quite hear, but whatever they said it was with a commanding voice. Then Marco heard the distinctive sound of ammunition magazines snap into machine guns, then sounds of people in boots jumping onto the ship.

Armed Russians on this ship can only mean one thing, Marco thought. Treachery and a very narrow window of escape. 

Marco grabbed his shoulder bag in which he kept the book with its bookmark, and the cock-ring from Jean, and he quickly put some food from the storage into the bag. Marco pulled his clothes out of the corner, but he had not gotten anything on before the shooting started.

A pair of machine guns were rattling off a shower of bullets down in the cargo hold. Bottles crashed and wood splintered. The aim had been off, however, and Marco and the two other naked passengers were unharmed.

Marco saw his opportunity and jumped out from behind his cover, naked, sweaty, a scruffy beard, and his body pumping with potent male hormones. Three men with machine guns were standing a few meters away, about to reload. They looked up at Marco, and for a few seconds they hesitated, reflexively about to assume a submissive stance when face-to-face with a big man in a primal state of nudity, strength, and pure aggression. 

That was enough time for Marco to rush over to the hostiles and punch his way through. Saved by nudity and my swinging dick once more, Marco thought before running up the stairs to arrive above deck.

Six or seven armed men were standing in the twilight. They looked over to discover Marco. They stood there, perplexed by the view for a moment. Their training had not prepared them for this. 

Two seconds of observation was all Marco needed. A military ship was next to the cargo ship and armed men, Russians clearly, had embarked. There was no land in sight, only ocean, and the sky was dark, the stars and moon mostly covered by clouds. There was no hope of fighting off all these men and regain command of the ship. These men are not here by accident. They are here to kill me, Marco thought. That leaves only one option.

Marco ran to the railing of the ship and jumped over. Only his shoulder bag and its content came along with him down into the salty water of the Mediterranean. The armed men on the ship began to shoot down into the water. Marco had anticipated this and was swimming deeper down into the water trying to avoid the predicable path. But alas, a bullet pierced Marco’s left heel and the pain of lacerated muscles exploded.

Marco continued to swim, suppressing the pain. He went up above the surface briefly for air, then continued to swim further away from the ship. The dark sky saved him. The Russians had soon lost all idea of where Marco was. 

A quarter later, the two ships were far from Marco. It was unclear what was happening over there, but it looked like the military ship was about to leave and the cargo ship too was preparing to resume its path. 

What might have happened to Bes and Ibrahim, Marco thought briefly. I cannot help. It is time for those two precious butts to be thrifty and survive as men in the world wherever their paths take them. Because, Marco thought with a certain worry, I am nude and bleeding somewhere in the Mediterranean with no land in sight… my own survival is in doubt.