Mahmoud’s binoculars nearly fell out of his hand as he watched the young blond Adonis on the small yacht down in the Kusadasi harbor strip off his Speedo and stretch out on the roof of the yacht cabin to take in the sun. Mahmoud Noufeh enjoyed his voyeuristic pastime spying on men in the harbor from his tenth-floor balcony perch. He particularly enjoyed it when the cruise ships came in for their tours of the ancient city of Ephesus. With his powerful binoculars he could sweep the balconies of the cruise ships and sometimes see into the rooms. He didn’t know how often he’d been able to catch young men wearing next to nothing when they thought they were being completely private. Sometimes he caught couples fucking in their staterooms. A bonanza was when he spied two young, well-built naked men fucking.

From the height of his Kusadasi, Turkey, safe house, where he retreated between courier runs between Mid East terrorist organizations, he could even get a full view of the cruise ship pool decks.

The blond, lying on his back, giving Mahmoud a full frontal, made Mahmoud ache. A bit older than he liked them but not much older than seventeen, according to Mahmoud’s estimation. He watched for nearly an hour, imagining all sorts of positions in which he’d take that one, before the blond slipped on his Speedo and disappeared below. That was longer than Mahmoud had planned to spend to get into the mood, but it definitely put him in the mood. He turned, with a sigh, and went back into his bedroom, where he had a young Turk spread-eagled and bound to the bed waiting for his attention.

Hours later he got a call from one of his local contacts concerning another aspect of his business.

“Mahmoud, there’s a young man making the rounds down here on the waterfront looking to buy what you sell.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s at the outside bar at Stella’s Hotel. I can keep him here for a while if you can’t come down immediately. He seems quite eager.”

“No, I’ll come right down.”

When Mahmoud entered the outdoor bar, he nearly sucked in his breath--he did suck in his stomach. Sitting where Ergolu directed him was the young blond man Mahmoud had watched on the yacht earlier in the day. He was in shorts and sandals and a shirt that was open to show the well-developed, smooth chest that Mahmoud had already examined inch by inch through his binoculars.

“I understand you are looking for something,” he said, as he came over to the table. He didn’t sit down immediately.

“Yes,” the young man said. “I need a semiautomatic machine pistol. I was led to believe I could buy one here.”

“We don’t deal in anything like that here in Kusadasi,” Mahmoud answered. “But, say if we did, what would you need such a gun for?”

“I have a job to deliver a boat from Istanbul down to South Africa. I’m told that the coast of Africa can be dicey with pirates. I have no protection at all, and I haven’t been able to get a gun legally here. A hand gun would give me some protection.”

“What you need is a dozen men with submachineguns and a canon or two,” Mahmoud said, giving a little laugh at his joke, which he didn’t see as a joke at all. He would never attempt a run down the African coast in a yacht as delectable as the one he’d seen supporting this luscious young man’s body in the harbor in the afternoon.

“I figure that I can make it through if I use a low profile.”

It wasn’t Mahmoud’s place to save this man from himself or to turn down an arms deal, no matter how small. But it was a pity that a body this beautiful would be shark food in the near future. He would have to devise a way to use this young man before that fate caught up with him.

“So, you are American?” Mahmoud asked.

“No. Canadian. I’m from Toronto. I have a passport here, if . . .”

“No need. I don’t sell to Americans. Canadians are OK.” Mahmoud dropped into the seat opposite the young man, raised and clicked his fingers, and a waiter magically appeared. “Two Efeses for me and my Canadian friend here. And bring me a banana.” The waiter trotted off for the beer and fruit.

“My name is Amir,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“My name is . . .”

“No need for your name.”

“. . . Stefan.” It came out before he could stop.

“Well, Mr. No name that I heard, do you know what you seek?”

“I’m looking for a Glock. A Glock 22, if possible.”

“You’re very specific.”

“I was told that was what was in the market here.”

The beer and banana arrived and the two stopped talking and looked anywhere but at each other while the waiter was there.

“Were you looking for someone in particular to buy this Glock from?”

“I was told to ask for Mahmoud.”

“You were told that, were you?”

“Yes. If you don’t have something you can sell me, perhaps you can tell me where to find this Mahmoud.” The young man made as if to rise from the table, but Mahmoud reached out with a hand on his forearm. “Sit. We talk. I may have such a gun for you.”

“How much?”

“You Canadians are direct, aren’t you? Almost like the Americans. I think I could find you a Glock 22 with enough bullets to take care of all of the pirates on the west coast of Africa for 1,100 euros. I don’t deal in Turkish lira.”

“That much? I could buy a new Glock 22 for 500 euros. That’s a lot of extra money for the ammunition.”

“The Glock store isn’t here, Mr. Noname Stefan. I am the one who is here. I am the one with a Glock available without papers and with the number filed off. Of course, there is a way you could get it cheaper--say for 900 euros.”

“How?”

Mahmoud picked up the banana, peeled it, and extended it toward Stefan. “This banana isn’t for me. It’s for you. I want to watch you eat this banana. If you want a Glock at all, without the ammunition, you will eat it for me, slowly. If you want a Glock, with ammunition, for 900 euros, you will come with me to my flat and eat my banana. 700 euros if you let me fuck you.”

Stefan reeled back in his chair. “Whoa, dude. This isn’t anywhere close to what I do.”

“So you don’t really want a machine pistol bad enough,” Mahmoud said, and he rose from his chair, picked up his beer, took a big drag off it, set it down, and turned as if to leave.

“No, wait,” Stefan said, his voice full of consternation. “I mean I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never eaten a man’s banana?” Mahmoud asked.

“No. And I’ve certainly not been fucked by a man. I jacked off with another guy once or twice, but . . .”

“So, you are virgin to the ass fuck? No man’s been inside you before?”

“Yes. No. No, I’ve never done anything like that.”

“600 euros then. How much do you want this gun? You’re one sweet piece. I take good care of you.”

* * * *

Mahmoud shooed a houseboy out of the flat, as Stefan moved toward the French doors out onto the balcony that floated over the harbor. Stefan could clearly see where he’d brought the small yacht to the dock of the marina below. He saw the pair of binoculars laying on a patio table next to where he stood, and he smiled a little smile.

“Take off your shirt,” Mahmoud directed from across the room, as he was pulling his T-shirt over his head after closing the door on the departing houseboy. He was a solidly built Syrian, with black body hair, a muscular torso, and just the beginning of a beer belly. He was in his early forties and his torso showed the history of a violent man, including both two bullet scars and some knife slashes. In contrast, Stefan’s body was smooth, although also muscular, and the bronzed skin was supple, in keeping with his appearance to be about nineteen, although he was four years older.

Mahmoud came close to Stefan, facing him, at the French doors. He ran a calloused hand over Stefan’s torso while wrapping the other one around Stefan’s back and palming the small of the young man’s back. Stefan was trembling.

“Relax,” Mahmoud said, “I don’t bite. And the first time I’ll go slow.”

The first time? Stefan turned as if to head for the door, but Mahmoud, the hulkier and more powerful man, held him in close. “You don’t leave here unfucked,” he said in a raspy voice. “And if you want what you came for, you will cooperate in giving me what I brought you here for.” He stifled any verbal response to that by possessing Stefan’s mouth brutally with his. As they kissed, Stefan heard Mahmoud’s belt buckle being undone and his trousers and briefs hitting the floor.

“Time to eat the banana,” Mahmoud said as he pushed Stefan down to his knees in front of him.

He fucked Stefan the first time right there on the floor, Stefan’s belly folded over the arm of an overstuffed chair, Mahmoud cupping Stefan’s chin and arching the young man’s back up to his chest, and with a painful arm lock between Stefan’s back with the other hand. Although the entry was slow, the plowing from behind was anything but gentle.

Stefan reacted as any first timer being taken hard would. He made noises and begged for relief and did some sobbing, eventually settling down, though, to groans and moans and moving his buttocks with the rhythm of the fuck.

Mahmoud was impressed with how fast Stefan settled down and worked with him in the fuck. Little did he know just how experienced the young man was.

Afterward, he lifted and carried Stefan into the bedroom, deposited him on the bed, naked, climbed up on the bed, and gave Stefan’s body close and comprehensive inspection with his hands, tongue, and teeth. Stefan lay back and moaned as Mahmoud covered the young man’s cock with his mouth and gave him slow and total head.

When Mahmoud went off the foot of the bed, grabbed Stefan’s ankles, and pulled him down to where his buttocks were on the edge, Stefan was murmuring, “Yes, fuck me. Fuck me again.”

Wishboning Stefan’s legs, the Syrian did just that again, take Stefan hard, hard enough probably to have physically damaged Stefan even though Mahmoud was not especially endowed--if Stefan indeed was as virginal as he had claimed. By that point Mahmoud didn’t care whether or not he was. Stefan had a beautiful body, was blond, was responding to Mahmoud, and was here.

And, boy, was he responding. Stefan was bucking with his pelvis, drawing Mahmoud as deep inside him with each thrust as possible, wrapping a leg around the small of Mahmoud’s back to hold him close, digging his claws into Mahmoud’s pecs, and murmuring, “Fuck. Shit. Drive it in. Fuck me deep, Harder, big guy, harder. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuckin’ shit, I’m going to come.”

And then he did, and so did Mahmoud.

Both breathing hard, Mahmoud came down on the bed and pulled Stefan up with him. The Syrian’s tongue went to Stefan’s nipples, and he was licking the sweat off Stefan’s torso.

“You’re a wildcat in bed,” Mahmoud said. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Is this what it’s like? I never knew.”

“It’s what it’s like with me.”

“The danger of it is exhilarating.”

“You want to see danger?” Mahmoud said after a few minutes of both of them winding down. He turned, opened the drawer to the nightstand, and pulled out a Glock pistol. “You brought money?”

“Yes. 800 euros, but you’ve said I could have the gun and ammo for 600 if I let you fuck me. The money’s in my shorts.”

Mahmoud rolled back over to beside Stefan and said in low, menacing voice. “I could take your money and shoot you.”

“But you wouldn’t. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“How naïve you Canadians are--almost as naïve as Americans,” the Syrian said, with a laugh. Then he rolled over on top of Stefan, encasing Stefan’s arms with his knees, put the barrel of the Glock to Stefan’s temple and muttered, “Eat the banana again.”

Stefan gagged as Mahmoud face fucked him with this cock until he was in full erection. Then he moved down Stefan’s body until his knees were between Stefan’s thighs, spreading and raising them. Grabbing a pillow, he stuffed that under the small of Stefan’s back, raising Stefan’s buttocks to provide a straight shot for the cock. Thrusting inside Stefan and beginning immediately to plow him brutally, Mahmoud pushed the barrel of the Glock between Stefan’s lips. With each thrust of his cock, he yelled “bang!” and laughed.

“So, do we have a deal?” Stefan asked wearily after Mahmoud had ejaculated and rolled off him. “Do I get the Glock and ammo for 600 euros?”

“Yes, but have you ever fired a Glock before?”

“I thought I’d worry about that if I had to fire it.”

“You’re a good lay. If you stay the night with me and keep your thighs open, I’ll show you how to fire it.”

“Here, in this busy town?”

“You have a boat. We can go out far enough in the sea so that nothing but seagulls would be hit.”

Stefan turned his head away and smiled. It had been Mahmoud’s own idea. He hadn’t had to work it into the conversation.

* * * *

The small yacht was wallowing in the sea off the territorial waters of Turkey--not in the territorial waters of any country. Those sailing the vessel were otherwise occupied. Mahmoud was on his back on a narrow bunk below and Stefan was riding his cock and making as much noise as he could to cover the arrival of his compatriots, a U.S. naval Seals team.

The small cabin was swarming with big, tough naval Seals before Mahmoud had any idea what was happening. Stefan sprang off of him, grabbed the Glock 22 they had been target practicing with before they’d come below, and pointed the gun at Mahmoud while the Seals manhandled the key Mid East terrorist courier up onto the deck of the yacht.

“You sure the Agency is good with this?” the leader of the Seals team asked of the young man who wasn’t Stefan and of the older man who had arrived with them and now entered the cabin.

“Yes, I’m sure,” the Agency Candy Story unit handler of Trent, who was now posing as Stefan, answered. “Here, I think it’s fitting that you use his own Glock.”

Stefan stayed below, while the handler, who Trent knew as Maurice, returned topside with the Seal team chief. Still naked, Stefan, busied himself checking the nautical charts back to Izmir, where he was to check the yacht back in if and when he could maneuver Mahmoud Noufeh into international waters for an intercept. He was still looking at the charts, with half of his attention half cocked to what was happening above, when the interrogation was over up on the deck and he heard the short burst of shots followed by the splash in the water.

He’d done England, Austria, and Turkey in the space of less than three weeks. He wondered where his assignments would take him next. How many bad guys did he have to sacrifice his supposed virginity to again and again?

The answer came quicker than he had thought it would.

Maurice returned to the cabin, as the voices of the Seal team above faded with the sound of men going over the gunwales of the yacht to their own vessel, the scraping sound of something metallic being transferred to the deck of the yacht from the Seals’ ship, and that vessel shoving off.

“You did well,” Maurice said when he entered the cabin. He had the usual look of lust in his eyes that followed successful operations he conducted with Trent. Trent knew that the brush with danger and the conclusion of operations like this had an arousal effect on Maurice, and that the handler had a special attraction to Trent when the young American had been in his submissive role. It only affected Maurice more that Trent was still naked--and couldn’t help hiding his attraction to the bulkier, distinguished, in-command visage of the handler. It was obvious that the handler’s well-hung cock was straining to be free of his trousers, and Trent knew it would be, both of them on a high from the successfully concluded operation.

“It is finished, then? We can return the yacht to Izmir and both go on to other operations.”

“The yacht isn’t going back to Izmir,” Maurice answered. “We are immediately going to another operation on Mykonos. You still in your submissive role and possibly in more danger than from this caper. Four of the Seals have remained above and are already setting sail for Mykonos.”

“I heard scraping of the transfer of something bulky to the yacht.”

“Yes. Your cage for the next assignment.”

“Ah, so I am to be a slave.”

“Yes, a sex slave.”

“But in the meantime . . .” Trent said, in a breathy voice.

“Yes, in the meantime, I will help put you into the role of a sex slave,” Maurice answered, with a smile, as he unzipped his trousers and freed an erect cock.

Trent went on his knees, with a moan, and took the cock in his mouth, knowing full well the role he was to take on with Maurice that pleased them both the most and released the tensions of the danger and uncertainties of the just-completed mission.

In time Maurice pulled Trent to his feet, reversed him so that Trent’s buttocks were pushed into Maurice’s pelvis, the underside of Maurice’s throbbing cock pressed into the cleavage of the butt cheeks, while Maurice buried his face into hollow of Trent’s neck and reached around, grabbed Trent’s cock, and slowly jacked the younger, smaller man off to an ejaculation he hadn’t quite reached with the Syrian before the Seals had invaded the cabin.

By then Trent was open enough to Maurice that the larger man’s cock just slipped in and glided up into Trent’s passageway, where the long-time lovers found the mutually moaning rhythm of a releasing fuck.

 

Habu

[email protected]

Top


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus