[This is chapter one of a completed seven-chapter novella that will complete posting by the middle of November 2016]


“I don’t believe it. That must be photo shopped.”

“I assure you it happened. The Office of Training officer assures me that the two of you rutted around just like that in the woods not far from here.” The senior agent who had been at the graduation ceremony shuffled the photos about, but it didn’t change anything. Each photo was more damning than the preceding one.

“I can’t remember anything like that,” Trent Wilson declared, but the disclaimer slowed down as he neared the end of it. He had gone on a drinking binge with Stan, the covert ops trainer--and, yes, the two of them had gone out in the woods he was now staring at, through the window of the office he’d been sent to at The Farm training center near Williamsburg, Virginia. He’d been brought here right after they’d had their Ops officer course graduation. It had been like no other college graduation--the successful candidates, dressed in gym clothes, had gone through an obstacle course before they’d had their graduation ceremony. Graduation wasn’t guaranteed until they passed on the obstacle course. It had been a course found nowhere else but in spy training. And there wouldn’t be any certificates--just initiation into the Agency covert ops ranks.

“I wasn’t conscious. I was drunk on my tail. I’ve never . . .”

Something was happening with your tail,” the senior agent, who had identified himself as Maurice, said. “And you obviously did do ‘it.’ It’s quite clear that he’s covering you on all fours and that he penetrated you. It counts even if you choose not to remember it. You have been deflowered. You no longer are a virgin to male-on-male anal penetration--and, the ops trainer assures me, internal ejaculation. And he didn’t wear a condom. Do you want to look at the photos of his withdrawal from you again, of the residue of his ejaculation?”

Put that way it sounded so clinical--and sordid, Trent thought.

Bits and pieces were coming back to Trent. The instructor had suggested a break from a class segment--that they take their lunches to the words surrounding the training facility and see if they could get lost and then find their way back to the base camp. The agent’s idea of lunch had included more vodka than sandwiches.

Yes, now that the photos were there, Trent could pull out the encounter in his memory. The instructor had told him that nothing had happened and that they should just forget it, and Trent had latched on to that and let it work in his brain until he told himself it was the truth.

But the truth was that Larry had fucked him in the ass--that they’d both had too much to drink--but not in that order. Well, he’d had too much to drink. Larry seemed to be able to maintain control. Larry kept talking about how the job required trust and close relations between agents--that they’d had to totally commit to each other. Trent had accepted it hook, line, and sinker, and when he’d gotten completely blotto he’d found himself on all fours, with Larry crouched over his back and holding him close and the excruciating pain-pleasure of Larry’s dick inside him.

Trent had fought the urge of that, but he’d always been aroused at the thought of a man possessing him with his cock, and, when it had happened with Larry, he had not abandoned the urge of arousal of it.

“So, what now?” he asked. “Why did you let me go through the graduation exercise? I know the Agency has zero tolerance on that. But I assure you that it was the first and only time. And it happened after I applied and was accepted for the program. It wouldn’t happen again--if that makes a difference.”

“We want it to happen again, Trent,” Maurice said in a low voice. “We have uses for all kinds of people in our operations. And that wasn’t the first time. You apparently are highly capable of blotting events out of your mind that you don’t want to accept.”

“What do you mean that wasn’t the first time?” Trent asked, his voice tinged with shock.

“You were thoroughly vetted. There was a fraternity initiation incident. Once again alcohol was involved. Perhaps alcohol has a memory erasing effect on you.”

“Fraternity initiation?” Trent answered. “That was just jacking each other off. It didn’t go as far as . . .” But then he stopped. Somewhere back there in the memories he had buried deep in his mind, he had the sense that it hadn’t stopped with the jacking off. “Fuck,” he said.

“Precisely. Fuck,” Maurice agreed. His voice wasn’t judgmental. He seemed to be quite sympathetic.

“We learned of the fraternity incident when we were vetting your application. And we still pressed ahead. You have certain attributes--your looks and size, and our technicians say they can easily ratchet up the arousal effect it’s evident that you naturally have. The instructor who fucked you as part of our research into you was extremely complimentary. It would appear that, thanks to drink and your brain’s capability to compartment experiences, you have lost your virginity to men twice already. Our agent said you reacted as if it really were your first time. We have a use for that capability in our covert programs--for someone who can lose his virginity over and over again to a target we want to cultivate.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m saying that we won’t separate you for this--if you don’t wish us to. But only if you put your talents to use for us. Now that you’ve had an opportunity to admit that the encounter with the training officer happened, can you admit that you took pleasure in it?”

“Yes . . . I guess so,” Trent answered, unable to look at the middle-aged, but well-conditioned senior agent.

“You guess so? Yes or no?”

“Yes,” he admitted, letting out a long sigh as the secret he had sublimated flowed out of him. It didn’t matter much if he were honest about that--the worst that could happen was that he’d be fired, which was the logical next step here anyway.

“We want to train you to go with targets as if each time is your first time. You will receive training in that, and you will be doing very useful work indeed. Do you think you will be willing to do that?”

Trent paused, but he didn’t see what the other options were. He had planned and trained hard for this position with the Agency, and, now that it was out in the open that he had lain under two men--and not even admitting that encounter in a rest stop men’s room that the Agency’s investigators evidently hadn’t ferreted out--he realized that denying that need in himself had become a major frustration for him.

“Yes, I can do that,” he answered.

“It means you will have to give up full control to your handlers. Do you understand me?”

“I’m not sure--”

Maurice reached over and pulled Trent’s T-shirt over his head and then stood and started to unbutton his own shirt. “Oh, I think you understand. I want you to show me how you respond to yet another first time. Up on your feet, lean over this desk, and drop your shorts.”

Trent wasn’t under the influence of anything but freed lust and arousal, so, as Maurice covered him close from above and held his arms over his head at the wrists, and fucked his ass hard and deep, Trent was able to respond as if it were a virginal taking, writhing under the larger man and begging for both mercy and the stroking of the cock as he gasped, moaned, and sobbed.

“That was fine,” Maurice said after he was done and was readjusting his clothes. Trent remained bent over the desktop, groaning and panting. “Just a bit more specialized training. Then we’ll put you right to work. Ever taken a cruise to Bermuda, Trent?”

“No,” Trent said in a small, breathy voice, barely listening to Maurice as all of his attention was focused on the pain-pleasure of his throbbing, well-reamed channel.

“Would you like to take a cruise to Bermuda and to meet one of the legends of counterintelligence?”

“Yes,” Trent answered through a moan.

* * * *

“Sir, sir. Is that your son? He must come back down for the harness.”

“Yes, he’s mine,” Maurice told the cruise ship sports attendant, with a small laugh. “I’ll go tell him he needs to be wearing a harness.”

Maurice started climbing the rock wall on the back of the cruise ship while the sports attendant was beside himself that neither man was wearing a safety harness. “If you fall, you’ll really hurt yourselves,” he called up to the men, as Maurice, despite his age, gained ground on the younger man. Both of them climbed swiftly to the top without any safety gear.

The sports attendant was beet red and mumbling to himself when both men came back off the wall, the trip back down being even more precarious than the climb up was. They were one day out of Baltimore en route to Bermuda in a two-day run to the remote British colony in the Atlantic, where they would dock for one night only before turning back for the East Coast.

The danger of the climb had provided the first adrenalin rush for the two agents since the cruise had begun. Maurice had been training alongside Trent in the two weeks leading up to the cruise following Trent’s recruitment for the team at The Farm, and they both had found that danger keyed them up to want to couple wildly with each other.

“God, that was a rush,” Trent murmured when they’d moved beyond the sports attendant’s sputtering range.

“To the cabin,” Maurice growled, his hand gripping one of Trent’s elbows.

“Shit, yes, I want to ride you,” Trent answered.

And ride Maurice’s cock Trent did when they’d returned to the cabin they were sharing. Trent had quickly developed a taste for rough sex--which fit in perfectly with the training he was being given in prostituting himself to targets the Agency set--and Maurice was able and willing to give him an ever fresh experience in being taken totally.

Maurice was stretched out on his back on one of the twin beds in the cabin, and, wrists bound behind him and a choke collar with leash at his neck, Trent was straddling Maurice’s pelvis, facing toward his feet, and riding Maurice’s cock hard. Maurice had control of the leash and rhythmically worked the reins, going from arching Trent’s torso back and choking his neck to releasing and then reasserting the tension on the reins.

Both spent after Maurice took command and the senior agent had put Trent on all fours on the bed and banged the shit out of him, they lay stretched along each other and panting hard.

“We’ll be in Bermuda tomorrow afternoon,” Trent whispered.

“Yes, so I suppose you want to know what the operation is.”

“Yes, please. I don’t see what I can do in just a day.”

“But I can, and that’s what matters,” Maurice answered gruffly. But then he relented. “Ever hear of Eric Compton?”

“The counterintell master, years ago?”

“Yes.”

“We spent a whole day on him at The Farm.”

“As well you might. He was perhaps the greatest spy master of them all--especially since his existence has continued to evade the public eye.”

“So, what about him?”

“He’s going to fuck you, thinking you are a virgin. He’s living in Bermuda now. He has a name we want--one he’s always held back from giving us.”

“And I’m supposed to get that name?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. How am I going to manage that if other agents haven’t gotten it from him in the last ten years?”

“We have a deal. For some reason he wants to fuck a virginal young Agency recruit. He’s signaled that he’ll give the name to a handsome and desirable young man who he can fuck first. So, all you have to do is convince him he’s first, get the name, and come back on board the cruise ship. We overnight in Bermuda, so that’s all that needs to be done. Just don’t tell him you’ve come with a babysitter. He insisted that you come alone.”

“How do I know that--?”

“That you’ll be acceptable? We’ve sent him photos of you in training at The Farm. I don’t want you to get big headed, but his reaction was that he wanted us to send you as soon as possible. I think we’re being clever to use the cruise ship--fast in, fast out, and no real records of you being here. Like most tourist ports, Bermuda is very loose on documentation of tourists coming off the cruise ships.”

“It sounds easy,” Trent said, somehow wondering in his mind if it really was as easy as that.

“Just as easy as you’ve become,” Maurice said, with a laugh. “Speaking of which, exercise time. Go down on your shoulders on the floor and scissor your legs.”

As Trent complied, Maurice came off the bed, grabbed Trent’s ankles and split the young man’s legs wide, positioned the bulb of his cock at Trent’s anal opening, and, as Trent cried out at the merciless invasion, thrust down . . . and out . . . and down . . . and out . . . and . . .

* * * *

It was late afternoon before Trent reached Eric Compton’s beach bungalow on Spanish Point. Maurice had let the young agent take the ferry into Hamilton from where the cruise ship docked at King’s Wharf at the Royal Navy Dockyard, but he didn’t want Trent to take any transportation from there that would remember having carried the young man.

“Compton is salted away very deep for a reason,” he’d said. “We don’t want to compromise his position--or our operation.”

The walk from Hamilton to Spanish Point wasn’t a bad one. There was very little vehicle traffic of anything larger than a bicycle, and both the weather and the scenery--mostly white-washed or pastel-colored bungalows with tile roofs cascading down toward the sea--were pleasant.

Compton’s bungalow was at the end of a short cul-de-sac off Spanish Point Road. All but the roof of the house was below street level, and Trent had to descend a steep wooden staircase to reach the recessed front door. The boards of the stairs were so loose that they let off a racket as he climbed down them--no doubt on purpose, Trent thought, as a warning that someone was approaching. There were few windows on the street side of the building and such that there were were covered with bars. The security seemed to be very high. The way the bungalow was positioned, Trent couldn’t see the buildings of the properties on either side, and below the building, a small, private cove, with a short sandy beach, opened directly out onto the ocean.

Trent was taken aback when he was met at the door by a swarthy-looking, muscular man of distinct Turkish origin. The shock was that he was naked, hairy, and well hung. He also didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed in his nudity, and Trent obviously must have been expected.

“You have come to see him,” the man said in a heavily accented voice when he opened the door. He looked Trent up and down in an appraising look that Trent knew well and that had the effect of thickening and lifting his cock. It was a statement rather than a question. “Come on through to the terrace, but strip and leave your clothes on the chair over there. Mr. C. is a nudist.”

Maurice hadn’t told Trent of this part, but it hardly mattered if he was here to trade a virginity he didn’t really have for information that the Agency sorely wanted.

Having quickly pulled off and folded his clothes, Trent followed the Turk through a procession of well-appointed rooms leading toward the sunlight at the back of the bungalow. The attendant walked with a gait that showed the assurance of knowing he was a well-built and divinely equipped man. His shoulders and buttocks bulged, but his waist tapered in. He had the thighs of a rugby player, and his body was heavily matted with curly, black hair. He was dark complexioned naturally, but he also was burnt by the sun with no indication of tan lines. He looked more arousing from the back than the front, unless one was taken with big dicks, as his face was a bit thuggish and maintained a slightly sinister aspect.

Eric Compton was yet another surprise when they reached the terrace. He was well into his seventies, albeit with the distinguished look of a professor, and was thin, berry brown, naked, and in a wheelchair. His hair had all once been strawberry blond, but had been overtaken by gray in the thinning hair on his head, and was shot with gray on the patch of hair on his chest and what was peeking out of his pits. It still, however, was bright red in the bush at his groin, from which an unusually long, thin cock emerged to nestle along the inside of his thigh.

Trent noticed that the cock moved to half erection as he and the Turk entered the terrace and approached.

“Ah, you must be the young agent the organization has sent to me to pry my last secret from my dying lips,” he said, in welcome. He gave a low chortle at his own joke, but Trent could hear a rattle deep in the man’s chest that gave some credence to him not being in the best of health.

“Yes, I’m--”

“No need for your name, young man, which would be a lie anyway. All I am interested in is whether you are a virgin to men--I don’t really give a fuck how many women you’ve screwed--and that you’re willing to be debauched for the information I am being nagged to give.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve been briefed on the operation.”

“Have you now?” Compton asked in an amused growl. “See what you can scrounge up in the way of refreshment for our luscious young man, Ergon. What’s your pleasure? Booze, wine, beer, Sarsaparilla? Are you sure you’re old enough to consent to be fucked? You look young, which doesn’t turn me off at all, mind you. If anything, you look younger in person than in your photograph.”

“I brought a birth certificate and a doctor’s report,” Trent said. “Back where I left my clothes.”

“That’s OK, I don’t really give a fuck how old you are or whether some woman has given you the clap. Where I am in life, I don’t care if you are of age or clean. I only care, now that you are here, that you are as arousing as you are and will take cock. So, what to drink?”

“Beer will be fine, sir.”

“You heard him, Ergon. Chop, Chop, beer for our young guest and the usual for me. Come closer, son. Over here to me. Close.”

Trent managed a low yelp, as Compton pulled his naked body into the side of the wheelchair, with strong hands clutching and squeezing Trent’s butt cheeks and his cheek nuzzling Trent’s engorging cock.

“Might as well get started,” the older man said before he drew Trent’s cock into his mouth and dug the index finger of each hand into the young man’s anal entrance.

Beginning to breathe heavily at the expert blow job the old man was giving him, Trent gave the former spy master the gasps and groans he knew the man would expect of him and reached down to grasp and start to stroke Compton’s now-erect cock.

* * * *

The light from the sunset coming in through the French doors to the terrace from the bedroom had nearly been extinguished and the display of light was giving over to that of sound--the sounds of Trent’s sobs, cries, begging, moaning, and groans, as he did his job of convincing Compton that the Turk who had forced his massive cock inside him and was pumping him was providing the young agent with his first anal fuck.

Surprisingly, after all of the negotiations, Compton had wanted to be a voyeur in the event. After a sedate dinner on the terrace as the sun was going down, they had moved to the master bedroom, where Ergon had helped Compton out of his wheelchair and stretched him out on one side of the king-sized bed. Compton had propped his torso up on an elbow and was watching Ergon fuck Trent on the other side of the bed.

Trent was on the small of his back on the edge of the side of the bed away from Compton. The Turk was standing on the floor, crouched over Trent’s body, and holding the younger man’s legs raised and spread. After he’d spent considerable time burying his cock in Trent’s tight ass, while the young agent put on a performance of writhing under him and being taken for the first time, Ergon was mercilessly pumping him hard and deep.

Trent was able to ratchet down his demonstration of pain-pleasure loss of anal virginity as Compton reached down, cupped Trent’s cheek, and guided the young man’s mouth to his cock.

After fifteen minutes of three-way panting and the Turk’s rhythmic pumping and an ejaculation from both Ergon and Trent, the Turk pulled away and moved Trent’s body to where it was stretched along Compton’s and cupped into his belly. Only then did Compton wrap his arms around Trent’s chest; press the palm of his hand on the young man’s belly, to pull Trent’s ass into his groin; position his cock and begin a long slide up inside Trent; and begin to move his hips in a slow fuck.

Trent had known all along that he was expected to spend the night in Compton’s bed and return to the cruise ship the next morning in time for an afternoon sailing and leaving the impression that he’d never been there at all. So, when Compton finished fucking him and continued to embrace his body, as Ergon withdrew from the bed and left the room, Trent just went with the flow.

But he hadn’t gotten what he’d come for yet.

“The name. You’re supposed to give me a name,” he whispered.

“Ah, yes, you remembered. Not just a divine lay, but you’re a good, on-point agent as well. Very well. The name you came for is Howard Scanlon.”

Trent almost gave a jolt. Scanlon was deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He had no idea what the name meant or why Langley wanted it so badly--he assumed it would be a foreign name--but anything connected with a deputy director of DIA was big shit in the intelligence agency.

“Now settle down, I happily find I can do you again.”

And, indeed, Compton hadn’t withdrawn that long dick from Trent’s channel and it had maintained purchase after the older man had come. He was hard again, now, though, and his pelvis was going back into motion.

Knowing his role, Trent murmured, “Oh, God, yes, I want it again,” and began a counterstroke with his own hips. Compton reached around, grasped Trent’s hard cock, and began to stroke. Between the proficiency and length of the old man, the rough, monster-cock thrusting of the muscular Turk, and Trent’s own need of constant servicing, he had no trouble--or problem--with Compton fucking him through the night--or Ergon returning for another go, for that matter.

And he already had what he had come for.

At the thought of the hunky Turk, Ergon materialized from the shadows again and kneed his way up onto the bed, presenting his cock for Trent’s mouth in preparation for that “other go” Trent had welcomed. He anticipated that he would be fucked to exhaustion and sleep the deep sleep afterward, and in those thoughts he was correct.

With the late morning light streaming into the bedroom through the French doors, both of which now were ajar, Trent woke to a slap on his cheek. Looking up, he saw Maurice standing over him.

“Wake up and get moving. We have to get out of here,” Maurice was saying.

Trent looked over on the other side of the bed and, to his horror, he saw the torso of Eric Compton, with a pillow covering his head. There was no doubt in Trent’s mind that the man was dead.

“How? When? There’s a Turkish servant around somewhere.”

“Just put your clothes on and let’s get out of here,” Maurice said. “There’s a car waiting for us a few blocks away. You got the name, didn’t you?”

Maurice’s eyes narrowed and he sucked in breath when Trent gave him the name, but then he started pulling Trent out of the bed and prodding him toward the front of the bungalow.

* * * *

Two weeks later, at Langley Headquarters, as Trent was eating his lunch in the north cafeteria, he turned to page three in the Washington Post and began to hyperventilate. He took a quick look around him to gauge whether he was being watched and then settled in to reading the article about the tragic automobile accident on the Capitol Beltway the previous evening that had taken the life of the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, Howard Scanlon.

 

Habu

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