And into the Fire

Finn turned his head to the side in the bushes by the church building, taking with him Sarge’s cock, which he had been sucking, as the headlights of a new Jaguar F-Type sports coupe hit them and stopped for the briefest moment before the car drove into the church parking lot. Sarge grunted at the pull on the cock, but he kept it in Finn’s mouth. He was close to coming. Finn knew his luxury cars. He’d heisted more than one in Jersey City before he had had an unfortunate and murderous stint working in a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. And that was before escaping across the Hudson and into the anonymous world of the New York City homeless.

He hadn’t been homeless that long. He’d taken this route just a week earlier because he’d seen something by mobsters in New Jersey he shouldn’t have seen, he couldn’t be sure they hadn’t seen him, and he didn’t want to test that possibility. At nineteen, blond, blue-eyed, and with a good body, he’d been making it OK in New Jersey after dropping out of Dartmouth, or, rather, having been expelled from Dartmouth. He’d just left for New Jersey, not telling his Boston Brahmin family of his disgrace. He had wanted to cut those ties anyway.

Now he was getting a taste of the other side—and of Sarge’s cock. Sarge—who knew what his real name was?—was a victim of the first Iraq War, shell-shocked, dumped in New York City, and more-or-less forgotten. He was a big man, which made all of the difference. As soon as Finn had hit NYC’s homeless nation, he’d been advised to get a protector because he was just too pretty to roam the streets of the city unmolested alone. He had turned some tricks in Jersey and Sarge was trading protection for good head, so they’d hooked up.

It was November and it had already snowed once. The Manhattan churches were running winter homeless shelters and soup kitchens for the homeless already since the government had defaulted on this social responsibility. In addition to protecting him for good head, Sarge knew of all the good shelters and the best of what they were serving for meals. He’d brought Finn to an Episcopalian church—in appearance more a cathedral than just a church—in the wealthy Central Park South area of the city.

“The food’s the best here,” Sarge had said. “They have a room with pool tables, they show the latest movies, and the beds aren’t in one large hall, but in several smaller rooms. They have lockers we can put stuff in to keep the others from stealing it too,” he had added.

“Sold,” Finn had said and they had trudged over there, with Finn giving a Sarge a deposit on his protection dues before they went in.

It was all as Sarge had described. Even the people waiting on them looked like the kind of snotty people the Bradlees—Finn’s family name—in Boston socialized with. One guy, maybe in his late forties, but expensively dressed, tall and trim, with gray sideburns, who was giving Finn the eye while he sat next to Sarge and they ate, looked particularly well-heeled. Others doing the serving, obviously people who went to that upscale church, were giving the guy deference, which confirmed he was money or high status in Manhattan—or, most likely, both.

That said, Finn hadn’t done all that much streetwalking in Jersey City before coming across the Hudson, but he’d done enough of it to know what that man’s looks in his direction meant.

This came into play later that evening when they’d moved into the pool room, someone had ruffled Sarge’s feathers, and he’d had a meltdown. The shelter people had a plan for such things, and Sarge wasn’t the only homeless veteran with mental issues brought on by military service in the Middle East. They had him subdued and taken away somewhere, outside the church, pretty quick, but that left Finn unprotected and feeling vulnerable.

Unless . . .

“I don’t think your friend will be coming back here tonight.”

Finn had been standing out in the intake hall, looking at the door to the parking lot where he’d last seen Sarge being hauled out. The voice was that of the man who had served them dinner—the man who everyone else was tiptoeing around—the man who had given Finn several “could eat you alive” looks during the meal.

“He’s not my friend. Just another guy,” Finn had said. He didn’t want to be hauled off to wherever Sarge was being taken.

“Could have fooled me,” the man said. “I’m Jordan Aylor. You don’t look like you’ve been on the homeless circuit long. I haven’t seen you in here before, I don’t think.”

“Sarge told me this was the best place in the city to sack out,” Finn said.

“Sarge. That was your friend’s name? And yours is?”

“Finn,” he answered. He didn’t give a last name. His accent was Bostonian. If he’d said his first name was Finton and his last name was Bradlee to an obviously well-connected dude like this, the guy’s wheels would start spinning. Bradlees didn’t usually wind up homeless in New York. “How do you know I haven’t been homeless long?”

“Several things. You’re too young and don’t seem pulled down yet, if you know what I mean. I heard you talk. You’ve had some college, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, what of that would mean I haven’t been homeless long?”

“The kicker is that your clothes are still good—and I bet if I looked at the labels, I’d find some of the stores I shop at too.”

“Maybe I picked well at Goodwill,” Finn said.

“Knowing a good label from a Walmart one and finding expensive clothes that fit you like they were custom made for you,” Aylor said, and laughed. “Listen, the accommodations here are good in homeless terms, but I don’t think they’re good enough for you. If you want, you could come home with me tonight.”

“Go home with you? And do what?”

“I think you know what,” Aylor said, reaching out, after looking around, and touching Finn’s shirt sleeve. “I saw these clothes earlier—and Sarge’s too. You were giving him a blow job in the bushes outside. He’s your protector, but he’s gone at least for tonight, isn’t he? Don’t you think you’d like a decent shower, some good whiskey, and clean sheets in a bigger bed than a folding cot?”

Oh.

Of course the car Aylor drove several blocks to a high-rise apartment building was a new Jaguar F-Type sports coupe.

An hour and a half later, Finn was standing at a window of Jordan Aylor’s four-bedroom, four-bath, third-floor apartment at 110 Central Park South, looking out over The Pond in the southeast corner of Central Park and sipping Glenfiddich single-malt Scotch whiskey from a cut crystal glass. He was wearing an iridescent blue-green silk robe, and nothing else.

Looking at him and how comfortably the young man fit in with the expensive surroundings, Aylor laughed and said, “I knew you hadn’t come from the homeless class. And I knew that you were fine with taking the shaft. You’re a beautiful and very desirable young man.”

He had already fucked Finn once in the shower off one of the guest rooms, and Finn had every reason to believe the man would fuck him again within the hour. The man had been surprisingly hard-bodied, big cocked, and experienced in what to do with another man. Finn thought perhaps the man had also been surprised—and pleased—to find that Finn wasn’t exactly a novice either.

Aylor came in close behind him, embraced him, and ran his hands into the folds of Finn’s robe, going to the young man’s pecs and nipples with one hand and to cupping his balls and cock with the other. Aylor was pressed close into Finn’s back and he could discern that the man was in erection again.

“Umm, you clean up very nicely,” Aylor said, kissing Finn in the hollow of his throat. “You are a sweet little piece.”

“Is that what you think of me as?” Finn asked. “Just a little piece to screw for a night?”

“I do plan on screwing you as often as I can get it up the night, yes,” Aylor said, “if you’ll let me, which is if you want to spend the night here, but as far as being ‘only’ anything, I don’t think you’re that. I think you’re a mystery. I also don’t think you are the usual homeless fare.”

“You’ve said that before, but without enough reasons. Why don’t you don’t think that?”

“You knew to ask for the Glenfiddich,” Aylor countered, “and you sound educated, and you look divine when you are showering. Also, you know how to take cock, and you do so submissively. You could be a high-class hooker, and just might be, as far as I know. But yet, I found you on a homeless pile. So, yes, you are a mystery. But not a mystery that needs to be solved just yet.” He took the glass of Glenfiddich from Finn’s hand and put it on the top of a small table within reach. Then he unknotted Finn’s robe.

“Because you have other mysteries to explore?” Finn asked.

“No, because I’m going to screw you again. And since nearly an hour ago, in the guestroom shower, your sweet body has not been a mystery to me. For tonight I own you.”

Aylor fucked Finn right there, in front of the window, disrobing him, and directing the young man to jut his hips back, which Finn did without demure, as he leaned forward and grasped the trim of the window on each side. Aylor put one hand on Finn’s belly, and used the other to position his cockhead and to help him penetrate Finn’s ass. When he was mounted and inside Finn, that hand came around to stroke Finn’s cock and play with his balls as Aylor pumped him with his shaft. Finn shot his load first, but Aylor ejaculated soon thereafter. Aylor handed the glass of Glenfiddich back to Finn after he was done with him.

“I have some paperwork to finish,” he said, as he moved away from the window. “I think we’ll sleep on the guest bed tonight—and perhaps move into the master bedroom tomorrow, when and if you are less of a mystery to me then—that is if I am still enough interested in you to give you a taste of the good life for a while.”

Finn wanted to add, and if I decide to stay, but he didn’t. He could get to that if he decided not to stay. His gaze out of the window told him it was nasty outside—not just rain, but also sleet. He’d lost his chance to sleep at the Episcopal church that night. He’d been homeless long enough not to be anxious to return to that, especially if Sarge wasn’t going to be there to protect him for a while, if ever.

An hour later, Finn, naked, was lying on his back at the foot of the guestroom bed. Jordan Aylor was kneeling on the floor below him. He was gripping Finn’s knees and pressing the young man’s bent legs up into his chest, rolling Finn onto his shoulder blades and turning Finn’s hips up to expose his hole. He was eating the young man’s ass out, periodically licking up his choke to swallow his balls and further up to suck his cock. Finn was moaning low, whispering a mantra of “Yes, like that. Just like that. Yes.” He was gripping Aylor’s wavy dark hair, with gray at the temples between his hands, holding the man’s face into his crotch.

Still gripping the young man’s knees, but pulling them down to place Finn’s feet gripping the edge of the foot of the mattress, the tall, slender, tanned, lightly hirsute, hard-bodied man of forty-seven, stood and hovered over Finn’s small, smooth, perfectly formed body. Aylor dipped his face down to take Finn’s lips in a deep, possessing kiss. Finn opened his lips to the man and Aylor slipped his tongue inside. Moments later, though, Finn abruptly jerked his face away, arched his head up, and gave a little cry, as Aylor entered him, pulled out, entered him again, pulled out, thrust deep, and began to pump him. Finn shuddered, cried out, “Yes, yes. Fuck me, Daddy!” And Aylor did, maintaining his grip on Finn’s knees and pushing them out as he thrust in and pulling them into Finn’s body as he pulled out. Finn clutched at the man’s biceps, pressing his fingertips in, and began to rock back on the cock as it plowed him.

As the fuck became more intense, Finn followed one of the backstrokes up by raising his pelvis up, using the leverage of his feet and arching his back, going up onto his shoulder blades.

Aylor laughed. “You want it, don’t you? You’re hungry for it.”

“Screw me, Daddy. Fuck me hard. Work me deep,” Finn whined. One of his hands went to his cock, stroking himself off, while Aylor clutched and squeezed and separated his butt cheeks with his hand, fighting to fuck Finn deep. Finn cried out, “Fuck me! Take me! Punish me!” As both of them fired off nearly simultaneously.

They slept, arms and legs entangled, and Aylor woke up, smiling and purring, as Finn had him on his back on the bed, was saddled on his cock, and rode it to a mutual cowboy jack off.

As they cooled off, in each other’s arms, Aylor said. “Very nice. Very nice indeed. You’ll do nicely. We’ll move into the master bedroom today.”

“I’ll do nicely for what?”

“For what will keep you in warm showers, clean sheets, and a supply of Glenfiddich. We’ll go out later this morning and get you measured and outfitted for evening wear and silk briefs.”

“And why is that?” Finn asked.

“We’ll be going to the Met Saturday evening. They’ll be performing Aida. Aida by Verdi, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Finn said.

“I rather thought you did. We’ll lay on some other instruction to develop you further before Saturday.”

He hadn’t asked Finn whether he was going to be staying through Saturday or if he wanted more instruction or new evening wear. But the truth was that Aylor had had Finn at the mention of regular showers, clean sheets, and a supply of Glenfiddich.

“Will the instruction be in exotic sexual positions?” Finn asked.

“Among other things,” Aylor answered cryptically.

Finn didn’t ask about that either. He didn’t want to push his luck. He couldn’t have asked right then anyway, as Aylor was turning him on his back, lifting his arms so that Finn could grip the headboard to hold himself steady, and saddling himself on Finn’s hips. Finn had ridden his cock; it was time for Aylor to ride the young man’s ass again.

Yes, he would do. He would do nicely, Aylor thought.

* * * *

The training Finn received over the next four days was mostly in the form of courtesan training and some speech training to take the Bostonian edge off his speech. Finn thought that Aylor must be a bit too anal—and not just in his fucking—to want to put this sort of polish on Finn for his own purposes, but it was the refined man’s money, so what the hell. He wasn’t the first young man Aylor had developed to fulfill his desires, Finn knew, and he undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last. New evening clothes and silken underwear were custom made for Finn—and quickly, but he found that the guestroom closet had plenty of other very nice men’s clothes in it—in several sizes of slimness, including his own.

What it took until Saturday night for Finn to discover was that Aylor, in fact, wasn’t paying for all of this, and he wasn’t polishing Finn’s edges for his own preferences.

During intermission at the Met Saturday evening during the performance of Aida, Jordan Aylor introduced Finn to a dark-olive complexioned portly man in his late thirties, who was flashing multiple gold rings on his fingers, by one of the bar carts. He had the look of a hawk. He had dark hair, with a close-cropped beard, and flashing dark eyes that saw everything and undressed Finn as Aylor and his charge approached. He was wearing a stark white, full-length robe, Finn knew was called a thawb, with a white head dress, with a black, ropey band around the cranium. So, he was from the Middle East, Finn surmised. If Aylor mentioned the man’s country when they were introduced, the Arab as Hamad bin Nasseur, Finn missed it, but he caught something about a United Nations delegation.

They chatted about the weather here in contrast to that on the Arabian Peninsula. The Arab spoke only to Aylor, but he looked only at Finn, constantly undressing him and then something else with his eyes, something that made Finn shiver. If I man could lay another man down, part his legs, and enjoy him only with his eyes in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera house, Nasseur did that with Finn, and Finn, knowing he was doing that, blushed at the violation.

When the interval bell sounded, Aylor looked at the Arab and said, “So?”

“Very nice,” Nasseur answered, his eyes never having left caressing Finn’s body, resplendent in his new set of evening wear. “I will meet you here at the conclusion of the performance.”

While the Arab was slowly sailing away from them, his robes billowing, Aylor leaned over and whispered to Finn, “He wants to fuck you this evening. You will leave with him and make your own way back to the apartment afterward. It will be quite profitable for us.”

Us? Finn wondered. How profitable and what would the split be? At least Finn knew now that Aylor hadn’t been grooming him just for Aylor’s pleasure. Finn was to be an expensive male whore—pimped by Aylor. That thought had, of course, entered Finn’s mind during the previous week, and he’d contemplated whether he would stay with Aylor a bit longer or go back to the streets. The regular showers, clean sheets, and Glenfiddich had won. That wasn’t all that won, though. Finn was attracted to and aroused by the idea of being pimped in this way. He wondered if pimping young men to the elite was Aylor’s main source of income or whether it was just an adventuresome sideline of a bored and already-wealthy man. From the constant greetings and small chit-chat Aylor was getting at the Met that evening, it probably was a combination of the two. Most of the men who talked to them talked to Aylor but were looking at Finn.

Finn understood that they were here because his body was for sale.

After the performance, with the three met again by the bar cart, Aylor left alone to retrieve his Jaguar sports coupe, and Finn was being handed into the Arab diplomat in the back of a sleek Cadillac limousine by a “I see nothing” chauffer. Nasseur already was unbuttoning and flaring his thawb and pulled Finn’s face down into his lap as the door clicked shut behind him. Finn dutifully took the man’s cock in his mouth.

The limousine did three complete circuits of Central Park, while Finn, after giving the Arab head and minus his trousers and silken briefs, sat in the Arab’s lap, facing him, and bounced up and down on the portly man’s thick, but not taxingly long cock. At length, the limo pulled up in front of a male brothel in Chelsea.

Nasseur paid for a room for the night. The room had a double bed with restraints at the four corners and a shelf of toys. Nasseur tied Finn, belly down and naked, with a wedge pillow under his belly raising the young man’s buttocks in the air, on the bed, bound to the four corners. The Arab ran his hands lovingly on Finn’s body and turned the young man’s face so that he could give the Arab head again, which Finn cooperated with and did. Nasseur played in the young man’s passage with an oversized dildo and then mounted and rode his ass. He used a paddle to redden Finn’s cheeks and mounted and fucked him again. Later he played in Finn’s passage with a set of graduated, pear-shaped rubber balls, listening to Finn pant hard and groan, and then he mounted the young man’s ass and fucked him yet again.

At 3:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, the doorkeeper of the male brothel in Chelsea put a staggering Finn in a cab. Jordan Aylor was entertaining another man, from the sound of it, in his bedroom when Finn returned to the Central Park South apartment. Finn showered, standing under the running water for fifteen minutes and moaning, dragged himself to the bed when he’d dried off, and slept for eight hours. No one disturbed him.

The guy Aylor had been fucking in his room when Finn returned was named Dex. He was about the same age as Finn. Where Finn was blond, on the small side, and more pretty than handsome, Dex was robust, red-headed, and had an Aussie accent. Finn didn’t know where Dix had come from—how Jordan had acquired him—but he was set up in one of the other bedrooms and, within a couple of weeks, taking longer to groom to Aylor’s satisfaction than Finn had, he was doing the same thing for Aylor as Finn continued to do through the winter, at a pace of about twice a week—he took high-paying tricks that Aylor arranged, often from men with kinks, and always from men who obviously had money and power.

Aylor continued enjoying both young men in his bed himself, sometimes three of them together. Dex was versatile. He fucked Finn as often as Aylor did, and once, in late February, Dex and Aylor shared Finn in training preparation for a night in which Aylor sold Finn to a visiting Nigerian soccer team. There had been nine of them in a hotel room. They were all black and built. Some were formidable, but soccer doesn’t require the bulk that American football does. Fast runners are more needed in that sport.

The nine of them had sport with Finn, passing him around between each other, fucking him in their individually favorite position while the rest stood, watching and beating their meat, and then passing him to the next. Twice he was left babbling between two, in him at once. At the end, they were good enough to put him under the water in the shower, dress him, and take him downstairs to help him into a cab. It had taken Finn four days to recover from that date, but he’d had a half smile on his face the entire time he lay in the bed, moaning softly. After the big-cocked, enthusiastic, athletic, team-working Nigerians Finn was ready for pretty much anything. It had been a profitable evening for both Finn and, of course, Jordan Aylor.

When Finn recovered from that, he could have walked out of Aylor’s apartment and kept on walking. Aylor showed no indication he would oppose that in any way, if Finn wanted to leave. Finn didn’t walk out. He kept taking the high-roller tricks Aylor set up for him.

* * * *

The first week in April Brian came into the apartment and was set up in the third guestroom. He was a bit younger than either Finn or Dex. He was a blond Greek, not all that dissimilar to Finn in looks and build. He was a bit of a screamer and dramatic when Jordan fucked him in the master bedroom. Aylor said that would be popular with some man—giving it up like a virgin each time—and he must have been right. Brian was put on a busy schedule.

He was so similar to Finn in looks and was taken into Aylor’s bed much more than Finn was in these days that it began to make Finn feel redundant and in danger. He had every reason to think that.

Soon after Brian arrived, Aylor took Finn on that last drive.

As the Jaguar entered the Lincoln Tunnel en route to the New Jersey shore, Finn finally sat up in the passenger seat and took notice. Jordan Aylor had told him he was going on a weekend assignment and that he should pack casual and sports clothes and a couple of Speedos. Finn hadn’t asked any questions. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He hadn’t been consulted on where he’d go, who he’d go with, and what they’d do before, and there was no reason to think he’d be consulted this time either. The cash he’d receive would make it, on the balance, worthwhile. But always before the trick had been confined to Manhattan.

He had reasons he didn’t want to appear in New Jersey.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“We’re almost there,” Aylor said. Coming out of the tunnel, he got on Park Avenue, headed south, in Hoboken, and within minutes they were pulling into the Shipyard Marina and stopping at a pier beside a supersized yacht.

“That’s got to be at least 120 feet long,” Finn said, looking at the vessel.

“A bit more than that, I was told,” Aylor said. “The Web site I was directed to when I got the reservation request on you says it is 122 feet long, is named the Sonic, and, like you, it’s rented out with crew.”

It wasn’t the way Aylor usually talked to him. His tone was hard. Finn was about to say something when he saw three burly men come off the yacht and move toward the Jaguar. Finn’s eyes went to their armpits. All three had gun holsters hung there. One was taking his gun out of the holster.

“Umm, Jordan, I don’t think this is a good idea. Let’s backup and get out of here.”

“This is your weekend stint, Finn. You’re going deep-sea fishing and are part of the entertainment. Go ahead and get out of the car and pull your bag out of the back. These gentlemen will take you on board and get you settled.”

“Gentlemen? These are thugs, Jordan. Did you make sure to check them out? These guys might be in the mob.”

The three men took up positions. One was walking around the Jaguar, running his hands over it and admiring the styling. The one who had his gun out of his holster was standing off, in a half crouch, holding the gun in front of him. The third one opened the passenger door.

“You need to get out of the car and go with these men, Finn,” Aylor said, his voice still hard, and looking straightforward, avoiding looking at any of the men. “Let’s not make a fuss now.”

“Us? You have said anything about picking me up on Monday. Will you be meeting the yacht? Will it be coming back here?”

“We’ll see about that on Monday.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t think you’ll be coming back, Finn. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t really have any choice in accepting this contract. They asked for you, Finn. No, they demanded having you. You might do some thinking why that is so. They asked for you by name, including your last name—Bradlee. Of the Boston Bradlees. My advice to you is to make yourself as desirable to these men as you can for as long as you can.” Finn’s blood ran cold. “I told you I would research you and find out who you are. I did. Your family in Boston is curious about your absence, but I get the impression that it’s more concern about how many splits there are in the family fortune than about your well-being. I think this is the end of the line, Finn. It’s up to you where you go after this—and how you manage to get there.”

“You’re a bastard, Jordan,” Finn said, looking at the thug holding the car door open and trying out a nervous smile on him as he got out of the passenger seat and reached behind the seat for his suitcase.

The real shock to him, though, came as he was being escorted on board while the Jaguar was pulling out of the parking lot. One of the men was showing him into a door of the large salon when he caught sight of where the other two men were walking, toward the covered fantail of yacht. His blood was running cold again. He recognized the middle-aged tall, heavy, but muscular, and obvious in-command man sitting on a curved sofa following the rail of the fantail, with a rubberized dingy hanging on a frame behind him. Enzu Tortino, who Finn had reason to know was the patriarch of one of the New Jersey mafia families, was sitting, talking to a younger, good-looking, muscular man, laughing, smoking a cigar, and holding a can of beer. Both men were wearing Speedos and nothing else. Tortino probably shouldn’t have tried it, although he was more solid than fat. The other man looked sexy in his.

But it was Enzu Tortino who made Finn tremble as he was led to the next lower deck and to a small cabin, with a bed, an attached head, and a wide window overlooking the Hudson River. He was locked in. Less than a half hour later, as he was looking out of the below-decks window, which was a real window rather than a porthole, he saw another limousine pull up. Two young women, obviously high-class hookers from how they dressed and how good-looking they were, got out and came aboard. Another twenty minutes and two limos drove up, disembarked five men, who looked like a matched set of Enzu Tortino’s crew—a middle-aged patriarch the others fawned over, a hunky lieutenant, and three armed soldiers. It looked to Finn like this must be some sort of peace or war council they’d be conducting in international waters.

Another hour and the yacht was on the move, steaming down the Hudson, out into Upper New York Bay past the Statue of Liberty, along the Staten Island shore, out into the Raritan Bay, and hence out into the Atlantic off New Jersey.

It took until dark to reach international waters, sufficient time for Finn to relive what he knew of Enzu Tortino, what he’d seen in that Jersey City Italian restaurant, and why he had escaped over into New York City and sunk into the homeless world. He had been doing some part-time waitering at the Italian restaurant which, unknown to him, was used as a meeting place between the New Jersey mafia families, being an authentic Sicilian restaurant and sitting on the edge of the territory of two families. Tortino apparently was having a meeting with a rival chief and Finn was coming out of the kitchen with a food order when Tortino and his crew took umbrage at something and started making swiss cheese of the dining room with bullets. He dropped his food tray and he and kitchen staff escaped through the back. But he never was sure that he hadn’t been seen and remembered by any of the Tortinos, who had apparently come out of the shootout on top, as Enzu, his lieutenant, and at least one of the foot soldiers from that day were on the yacht.

Finn learned early that he didn’t seemed to be remembered from the restaurant shootout, at least yet, because as the yacht cleared the Raritan Bay, the men were up on the deck behind the bridge, where chairs were bolted to the floor and fishing rods were set up. They didn’t get into business while still in U.S. territory, but they did fish. And they drank, and they brought on Finn and the two prostitutes. Gays separated from straights in the ten-man guest party and fondling was in order. Tortino himself commandeered Finn for pawing, with the lieutenant of Peppi Puglisi, the patriarch of the other mafia family, hovering around, showing a lot of interest. A couple of the Puglisi foot soldiers were also ogling Finn. The rest shared the women prostitutes between them. The few men sniffed around both Finn and the women, ready for “any port in a storm” sex.

Finn didn’t actually get fucked in the afternoon, but he did give four blow jobs and received “all the way later” declarations and winks from each of those guys. He was put back in his cabin while the rest were eating dinner. He received his dinner on a tray in the cabin.

At 9:00 p.m., a crew member—there were five of them, all capable-looking men who supposedly went with the yacht rental and thus seemingly were neutral—brought a skimpy red satin Speedo to Finn and told him that he and the girls would be dancing for the men and performing with the men in the salon. This was when he was fucked twice.

The girls were just in red satin bottoms as well. The guests lounged around on sofas, chairs, and pillows on the deck in the salon while Finn and the girls danced provocatively for them to CDs. The lieutenants and foot soldiers drew lots on being included in the performance and Finn and the girls were fucked, in a line, in front of the others, most of whom had their dicks out and were stroking them. Finn was in the middle, hanging off the pelvis of Peppi Puglisi’s lieutenant, who was holding him up with a beefy arm under his waist, while Finn arched back, the heels of his hands pressed into the deck, his knees hooked on the lieutenant’s hips, and the hunk fucked him. There was a girl to either side of him being fucked as well.

After this display, one girl went to Peppi Puglisi and gave him a lap dance that proceeded into a fuck. The other girl went to Enzu Tortino’s lieutenant for the same, and Finn knelt in front of Enzu Tortino, between the man’s spread legs, sucked his cock, and then danced on his lap and rose and fell on Tortino’s cock. The man was hung and cruel, forcing Finn all the way down in his lap from the first stretching slide, slapping his cheeks both above and below, squeezing Finn’s buttocks and mashing him around in his lap, punishing Finn’s passage with his thick, hard shaft, chewing on his nipples and his neck, and as he approached shooting off, choking the young man with his hands, controlling Finn’s breathing, releasing the pressure with each blast of cum. Finn could believe that the man killed other men and didn’t need a gun to get it done.

When he was finished, Tortino pushed Finn down on the deck on his back, panting and emitting a low moan. The cruel gangster beckoned to a beefy black crew member who had been standing on the periphery, watching and rubbing the crotch of his white trousers. The man smiled, pulling his T-shirt over his head and unzipping himself as he approached. He knelt between Finn’s thighs at the direction of Tortino and ran a beefy arm around Finn’s waist to elevate the young man’s pelvis. As Tortino watched with a little smile on his face, the black sailor fucked Finn in a missionary position.

Mercifully, Tortino still didn’t recognize Finn from the restaurant shootout. Tortino took him to the master cabin and banged him for half the night, showing that the old man still had “it.” He sent Finn back to his cabin prison at 6:00 a.m. Before Finn fell onto the bed and into an exhausted sleep, he saw lights outside the cabin’s window and looked out. Another, smaller yacht was out there, taking the two girls off the Sonic. Finn assumed that fresh women were brought on board at the same time, but he was wrong, and thinking on why he was wrong would have given him warning of trouble to come.

At 8:00 a.m., Puglisi’s lieutenant and one of his foot soldiers were let into Finn’s cabin. They woke him and worked him over—both giving him a bit of a beatdown for their bloodlust pleasure and then fucking him, separately, and then together, in a double penetration. The lieutenant was on the bottom, facing up, and a thoroughly cowed and submissive Finn was stretched out on top of him, facing up, and on his cock. The young, muscular, hung foot soldier was between Finn’s spread and raised legs and giving him a good fucking on top of the lieutenant’s buried cock.

Along about 9:00 a.m., Finn discovered why the two had been let into his cabin. He was a divide-and-conquer distraction. That’s when it hit him that the girls had been taken off the yacht and probably not replaced to cut down on the collateral damage. While the two Puglisi soldiers were doubling him, gunfire started up in the bow of the ship. The whole fishing expedition had been planned to feed the core of the Puglisi family. The two who had been fucking Finn managed to get out of the cabin, with their guns, but they probably didn’t get far before they joined Puglisi and the two others in a pool of blood on the deck. Maybe not, though, the gunfire was continuing. They left the cabin door open and Finn saw one of the supposedly permanent crew go by, gun in hand. So, Tortino’s forces probably had the use of five extra guns too.

Adrenaline pumped through Finn’s veins in spite of the sexual beatdown he had experienced. He had the presence of mind not to go out into the corridor. Instead, he grabbed up the chair in the room, smashed out the cabin window, and exited that way. He was below the first deck, but he managed to work his way around hand-over-hand, toward the stern. The gun fight was going on near the bow. He reached the inflatable dingy and managed to release it in the water.

He started the motor and headed toward the New Jersey coast. At last his escape was noticed, though, and he had to duck as several gunshots were sent his way—almost too late, though. He was out of range before he could be hit. He wasn’t out of range before the dingy was hit, however. Those on the boat lost interest in him then. Someone’s bullets hit something vital and volatile. The ship went up in an impressive explosion and sank quickly.

It didn’t look like he was far from land when the dingy finally took on more water than it could manage and sank from underneath him. He started to swim toward shore, glad that his high school days had been spent as a lifeguard on a Massachusetts beach.

Distances to land from out to sea can be deceiving, Finn was to find.

* * * *

Finn washed up on the beach at the end of Ocean Terrace at the southern end of Seven Presidents’ Park in Long Beach, New Jersey. He lay there, on his belly, naked, his torso raised a bit on his hands buried in the sand, retching out the sea water he’d swallowed before he could get to the beach.

He was found a few minutes later by sixty-five-year-old Walter Durham, owner, along with his wife, of Walter and Megan’s Grocery just a short walk up Ocean Terrace from the beach. Walter had been out that morning fishing off McLoone’s Pier. When he could, Finn babbled about mafia gangsters and a fire fight and an exploding yacht, and Walter helped him back to the small grocery store, took him upstairs to the apartment he and Megan shared over the grocery, and held him under the shower, while Megan made up the bed in one of the rooms where they let vagrants sleep if they came to them needing shelter.

Finn could not have picked a better place to wash up if he wanted to be sure he’d never been sought by the New Jersey mobs. If they knew about him at all, they would have assumed he’d died in the yacht explosion if he didn’t announce himself as alive and go to the police, many of whom were in the pocket of the mobs. There always was that nagging question of why the Tortinos had known his name and had specifically asked for him to be contracted for their boating party. That remained a mystery to him, but it did make him wonder if anyone in his family in Boston might be connected to that. Walter and Megan had reasons of their own to protect him. They’d lost a son as an innocent bystander in a gunfight war between the Tortinos and the Puglisis.

“You can stay here,” Megan said, “If you wish. We can help you get redocumented. You could work in the grocery, if it’s not beneath you. Walter’s getting tired. We’d hoped Tony would be alive to take over the grocery, but he isn’t. We take in vagrants, but we have a couple of bedrooms available even if you’re living in one.”

“I’m not above working in a grocery,” Finn said, content to become a substitute for the son Walter and Megan had lost. “There’s someone I’d like to track down to be here too, though, if it’s OK with you—since you take in men who need the support.”

The couple were fine with his plans. It took three weekends of returns to New York City, but he found Sarge and brought him back to Long Beach. Walter was happy; he was a veteran of the first Iraq War too.

From time to time Finn thought of his family in Boston—and in just how glad they’d be to find he was still alive. To the extent one or more of them didn’t wish him well, though, there remained a good possibility that someday he’d surface and claim his share of the Bradlee fortunes in Boston. Wouldn’t that burn their asses off, he thought, with a smile.

As time went on, Finn found a real hunk with an arousing personality and a big cock at the local tavern. Big Jim owned a local car garage. He was a real in-command kind of guy. He like riding the asses of young men, and he liked riding Finn’s ass so much that they became almost exclusive.

Almost. But they were both happy that each liked just a little bit of variety on the side.