Business reasons

Author's Note: This story is based on a real event involving the Russian mob in the Ukraine. I've moved it to the United States... I am personally fond of Argentina, the banker mentioned in his piece has a real counterpart whom, I know, is honest. That there is no conclusive end is because in reality, once this sort of 'hit' is carried out on a member of the group, they are expected to take it and go on. What happened in Kiev? Well, although I do know....that's perhaps left to your imagination or speculation; Whatever you come up with, you may be correct.

When Max went to prison there was a lot of talk as to who would get what, who would be out and, the main one, who would take over? Much conversation, much speculation then from prison came the word that I was the man, full stop. This was not a popular decision, I'd never been to prison, had a very successful career in finance beyond what I did with the guys and though I was respected, I wasn't tight with anyone. Which is probably why Max asked me to take over, it wasn't a new broom sweeping clean so much as it was an unexpected broom making new moves. Sent Max a note in prison on which there happened to be a partial finger print of mine smudged in blood; Sealed the deal….

Max and I had a good working relationship based on a great deal of trust and respect on both sides-as well as a little known element, we fucked each other. In gangster parlance, I seemed to be a “straight” meaning someone who isn't in on the scam, the con, the criminal part of the group. In fact I was all of those things but at a distance, seldom seen, regarded as a social friend of Max's. We played golf, shot pool, had season tickets for the game, did normal things in very public places which if you know your places, offer some well shielded spots for two men to get it on while getting it off. The CEO and the shady character, everyone has one questionable friend-he was mine. That was for the consumption of the world, the PD, the Sheriff, anyone who might be watching and wondering. They missed a big trick when they couldn't, discreetly, get someone into a private club where money moved from golf bag to golf bag, usually in the part reserved for an extra pair of shoes. In a very real sense, I was the money man, the one who, in theory if you were following the money, would come to me. But it didn't. And those private clubs? Secluded, not the sort of places where some, if any questions, were likely to be asked; I could tell you within an inch which holes on the course offered everything from a great place to screw to a pond in which to cool off afterwards. Towels in golf bags got everyone dry, doing it bareback leaves no trash-okay the spot of semen but...you don’t find what you’re not looking for.

From years gone by I had a great friend who was now the executive vice president of a bank in Buenos Aires. He valued my accounts while I valued his secrecy and, of course, where the money came from, apart from being delivered in a golf bag, was of no interest to him. As many business men did, when I had a long trip no point in shepherding luggage through customs, I packed up what I'd need, had FEDEX or UPS or DHL collect it a few days before my departure so, when I arrived, it had cleared customs and was waiting at the Alvear Palace Hotel. As was the bearer bond neatly folded in my social writing paper then packed along with other things such as my golf clubs, tennis racket, spikes for golf, dress clothing for an evening at Teatro Colon, my riding boots for visits to friends who had estancias on the Pampas as well as the clothes one needed for business entertaining, just being casual, what any man might carry. And the bond was a good idea although some might have disagreed.

My banking buddy was more than that; We played golf his private course filled with opportunities to fuck not only each other but a pair of strong assed studs masquerading as caddies. I cannot compliment Argentine hospitality enough-every man in business should have that close a relationship with his banker. Additionally we also shared a taste for taking men to their limits in terms of pain application. To accommodate this hobby, he had an estancia far from the city where one barn, somewhat blood stained, admirably served as an above ground dungeon fully equipped, adjacent to a fine ranch home with swimming pool, sauna as well as a steam room to be used after a strenuous workout in the barn.

It was not all pleasures and diversions, I was there on corporate/mob business; The two dove tailed nicely, very privately as well as providing two friends an opportunity to not only, share some kinky habits but each other.

A bearer bond is just what it says, a bond representing a sum of money, usually a very large sum of money, and may be cashed only by the bearer. One might think that there would be unscrupulous people who having bearer bonds from their firms cashed them then lived off the profits. Problem with that is, few banks are equipped to hand over millions and millions of dollars just because, legally, they have to. In the first place, virtually no bank has that sort of cash on hand and, second, by the time the person presenting the bond waited for the bank to rustle up the cash, they would have contacted the maker bank, had as much information on the bearer as was possible, so much so that when the cops swooped in to carry them away, the bank could hand over all the information a rap sheet would need. Including mug shots, discreetly taken during the transaction. My transaction was a bit simpler; I'd meet Alberto in his office at the bank, select an account number into which the funds would flow, hand him the bond then set about the more important business of a having a good time in Buenos Aires, one of those cities in which, if you cannot have a good time, you're doing it wrong. Given a population of about fifteen million, give or take a million-statistics weren't always accurate but that was close enough, there was pretty much everything to do from the highest of society to the basest of any activity you had in mind. Want a rent boy who prefers to be flogged? Look in the phone book. The best Russian cuisine in the city, look in the phone book. Or just ask around. No one actually even considered dining until past ten and having an ice cream or a freshly baked Napoleon at three or four in the morning was normal.

My own tastes ran to the cruelly carnal which made doing what I liked to do out of town a good idea. For money it's amazing what people will do or I thought it amazing until I started offering money for the services I wanted. Beyond that, I'd developed a stable of men suited for various occasions. Pyotor was from Russia, could walk into any place and turn heads; Surely you knew he was somebody, but who...? And the American Gentleman with him, equally well turned out, business men, but at the highest level. For what he cost, the highest level was what I expected. So highly valued were his services, he charged by the quarter hour, tipping was appreciated. On the opposite end of the scale there were the men who donated themselves given their own desires to be beaten, chained, degraded in all possible ways, but would still beg the Senor to select perhaps the larger whip and....leave stripes? Por Favor?. He would be honored. And did the Senor oblige? If the hour was not late and his arm not too tired from the zealous beating he'd just administered.... One could have a full evening in Buenos Aires, it was just a matter of knowing what you wanted to do then finding the right place to do it. However to miss a meal just to satisfy a desire for sex or blood was an error of taste. Of the tens of thousands of restaurants that dotted the city, new ones opened and closed like clams, it was virtually impossible to get a bad meal. Even mediocre was a rarity. I was always sorry to fly back North but it was with the clear knowledge that I'd be back; Just to encourage my hastened return, at Ezeiza Airport, just before I was to board Alberto would just ‘happen’ to remember someone, something new, disgusting but very diverting dangled in front of me….sad I was leaving...the bastard, Jesus I loved that man.

I was clearing my inbound messages when I found one from Max that, in the slightly coded way he used, suggested I needed to come visit him as soon as was possible; I left after an interval not risking any thought that this visit had some importance, only making sure I had a pass also making sure that when I got there visiting hours would be in effect.

It was a solemn Max that greeted me. Whatever was wrong was heavy on his mind and his heart. Never one to get right to the point-indeed so elliptical could he be that some never figured out what the point was-but today was a bit different. Simple declarative sentence, “Steve's fucking up, big time.” This was and was not news to me. Ever since Max had been locked up Steve had been given to me for my own protection and pleasure (Max had him well broken to sex as well as absolute loyalty, to the man he served-currently me. Problem was...his life was down scaled from what it had been. No more chases, guns, and, his favorite, beating people up; That was his principal occupation for Steve, Muscle and enforcement. (That he was experienced in fuck, suck and whatever else, was just a small part of the job; Steve had been trained to expect it from Max so, when I took over, all he’d done for his former man transferred to me. And he was good at it, all of it.)

When he moved into my home I canceled my security system as having him living there was like having a pit bull in the basement. Indeed I had to sometimes grab him as he'd seen an action or had a “feeling” that someone was up to something fishy or wished me ill. You couldn't buy loyalty like that but, equally, you couldn't find a quicker way to get into trouble either. I couldn't put a leash on him-at least not in public, though I often wished for a choke collar operated by wire. His temper, always just below boiling, was hard to handle and do anything else beside make sure he wouldn’t do damage of some sort which, then needed to be resolved without outside help;. At one point I had some surgery done so my watch dog sat in the room awake all night (also gave me a tough blow job that was almost more soothing than the injections for pain). But...damn near threw a nurse to the floor as she came to check on me.....

But now it had gotten out of hand; In my absence (again in the Argentine delivering money) he'd taken a whore to a motel then beat her so badly that she had been in the hospital for a week. What saved Steve's ass was that her pimp was one of a loose group of people whom we “knew” so she was paid off then shipped out of town. The problem was still there, Steve wasn't a loose cannon, he was the whole fucking twenty one gun salute; there was no telling when he'd go too far again but that he would, I was certain. In his subtle way, Max asked if I was afraid of him which I was not. Steve had come awfully close to punching me out but I had been able to draw down on him before that could happen; Men who have a gun at the back of their neck make great, very encouraged fucks...take my word on it. I'd also made it clear to him that I would kill him for a variety of reasons, no questions asked and, having seen some of the other things I'd done-I brought pictures from Argentina of a guy hanging by his wrists from a chain, whipped, thoroughly lost in pain- so it was made clear to Steve that if that wasn't possible here, I'd just off him….while he was driving me on a fast moving stretch of road. Actually, that made us a bit closer; Steve respected power and authority. In the picture from Buenos Aires he'd just seen a taste of it. He was perfectly willing to be shot, just not by the man to whom he'd been given. And make no mistake, Max had given him to me making sure he understood that a form of indenture existed so he was to stay with me until some other disposition was made. If it ever was. Or, what Max and I assumed, I’d “arrange” his death. Already I planned on forcing him to hang himself but in a way and a place that looked like suicide. When I was able to carefully put this idea across to Max I added that no one would believe he’d done so out of remorse. Max almost fell on the floor, his hand cuffs making a divot in the concrete, laughing.

Visiting hours were running down when Max looked at me and in that soft but resolute voice said, “Buzz, no choice, you're going to have to nut him.” I nodded, that had been on my mind and, frankly, I looked forward to the job. There was some brief talk about methods but it was left to me to decide; He just wanted to know some details out of curiosity. As much as prison allows, I embraced him, he was returned to his cell while I left to get the job done.

Steve met the plane, asked about Max, was told Max said to say “Whatup” to him as we drove home. For a classically stupid moment I actually thought I could just tell him, “Ya know, Max and I discussed this, sorry Bro, but your balls gotta come off. It's for your own good.” A speech that was never to be spoken. I had no idea how he would react but telling him directly was probably the worst way for many concerned; I'd probably recover and he'd catch a long stretch as a repeat offender. There just wasn't going to be any way to get it done, at least in a quiet way; If there was one thing he'd fight for it would be his balls. I happened to know he had a part time job, unapproved, standing at stud for women and men who wanted to be fucked as he was a technical virtuoso in that department or so reports would indicate; I had my own experiences but since I was his boss, he was easier on me than rumor said he was with others.

I had one advantage tho it was a thin one; When it came to trust, I had as much of his as anyone save Max. (And that trust was almost wholly based on the fact that I never did anything that he couldn’t perceive as trustworthy-face it, to him I was a bore..)While it wasn't much, it would allow me to get near him to do whatever I figured I could do to get him tied down to let me do the job. Which was also going to be tough. Absoluely he would fight me and I knew it. The only possible way was to take him down, secure him then get it done quickly. In a perfect, kindly world, I would have shot him up with anesthetic, waited for it to take effect and then, to the degree that I knew how-and this wasn't my first nut cutting-remove them carefully doing as little harm to him as I could avoid. However, that involved the introduction of an IV line which was beyond the pale in terms of what I would have the time to do.

Thinking all this over required buying time to get a plan that went further than just might work to one that absolutely would work. To keep him occupied I put us on an advanced sexual plan of activities that he enjoyed, one of which involved some heavy pain-which he enjoyed -but lacked all the elements that Max and I had decided on, mainly what to do after I finished….that had been left to me. Steve had his uses, some of them very difficult to replace. BUT….No man likes to have his balls whacked off so after it was done, shy of keeping him bound or sedated for an unforeseeable period of time was the unusable plan. In the mean time, I kept him involved doing to me what he did to others for money-and, to be fair, he had real talent; Indeed his skills at sucking me off were such that I could barely leave the house without being drained just for the hell of it, even if I was only going to the dry cleaners. Fuck, any guy who has ever had a blow job just knows they feel good.

The problem didn't go answered until I was watching some program on self defense and they had someone from the Sheriff's office demonstrate a taser, talk about how you could continue to use it until assistance arrived, that properly used it was non lethal. My first problem was suddenly answered; I'd already figured out the second one so it was just a matter of getting everything in the same place at the same time. Do-able, not easily but do-able. The next problem, and it was huge, was access. To say that knowing he lived with me may sound odd but..did not guarantee any form of access beyond meeting in the kitchen or when he had to do an errand; Essentially we were two men in the same cubage but living wholly different lives.

Steve was, almost from birth, a street rat. Lived in the white hood, fought as early as is possible and eventually acquired a minimal formal education. However that hardly defined what Steve knew and knew how to do. Cunning and being suspicious had got him a long way as was his almost innate ability to “read” a situation had saved his ass as well as the asses of those who employed him on a flotilla of occasions. I was easy, almost boring for him which meant that his defenses were both down and up simultaneously. I never did much that could cause him worry so his primary function in so far as I was concerned was watching for incoming of whatever stripe.

Bored by business-and banned from my offices after a series of unfortunate attempts at dating the women who worked there-he spent a lot of time in his car just “cruising” around, seeing buddies from the past-if they were out of prison-probably finding an occasional card game, pool sharking, dice, whatever. He didn't drink or do drugs-a professional necessity-so bar hopping held no interest. Experience had taught him he could get any woman he wanted so the interest of the chase was of secondary importance to the depth, perfection-to him-and ferocity his of sexual performance. Of course that was his Achilles heel but few knew that. Good looking in a kind of sleazy criminal way, built like a weight lifter but with all his agility, taking him down and keeping him down was going to be tricky. But, as is said, old age and stealth will overcome youth and skill-a phrase on which I relied.

We were in my bedroom-I’d allowed him to fuck me just to avoid a woody at the event I was attending-he was loading my gun, while I was getting dressed for a board of trustees meeting of some organization I'd foolishly joined. Never as dexterous as most, I frequently dropped things so he followed along, a street sweeper following the Elephants in the parade. Today was no different. He was bent over scrounging up ties, t shirts etc that had fallen to the floor in my closet when I caught him in the ass with the taser and just let it zap him until I had the very few seconds I knew I had until I could wrestle my cuffs on him as well as loosely gagged. Face down, in a closet, his muscles weakened it wasn't as difficult as I had thought it might be but, of course, the more difficult part was ahead. No way was he going to put up with being restrained and his reaction to the reason for his restraint made me wonder if he'd have an adrenaline dump of such magnitude to let him escape.

In the inside pocket of my suit coat was a filled syringe and, unplugging it with my teeth, I gave him a slug of Fentanyl that would keep him passive and, of course, I still had the taser needles in him and could juice him if it seemed a good idea. What I needed to do wasn't conveniently done in a closet so I dragged him to my selected “surgery”. I cursed wall to wall carpeting but when we got to the hard wood floor, he slid perfectly. For some dumb reason there was a column that was supposed to define my dining room from my living room which, I knew, was an architectural device to cover a steel upright that supported the “cathedral” ceiling. (At best it was a chapel but I'm being too specific.) As a place to secure him it was perfect and starting at the top of his head down to his waist, first stripped of his clothes or, more accurately, ripped, I had him bound to the pole. His pants removed,-he was going commando so no underwear-and each of his wide spread legs attached to large heavy objects.

Looking at him, naked, upside down, secured on the floor...what the hell, I stripped off my trousers then fucked him; It felt good, whatever his deficiencies, he did have a sweet ass, one almost custom made for guy’s dick, deep, after so many years nicely wide, it was easy to see how he could market himself at a good price. This time I pumped him hard and deep, swear his prostate gland yelped, just continued to do so until I shot the first time then pulled out. Why Not? Something he did not like but I enjoyed doing, a good old fashioned spanking done with a shoe until the lines on his butt were on the verge of bleeding which only meant one thing, time to use my already in place cum then plunge into him again. He may have made some sort of noise, didn’t notice, didn’t care. After all the shit he’d put me through just by being me, I regretted I didn’t have a platoon of horny Marines lined up to take over when I got limp.

The marble floor in the dining room made a good spot, even if doing it on the floor was complicating, as it was easily cleaned. Also, some of the heavier furniture provided a tie down for his legs. I'd pre-measured and so had rope the right length to go rather long distances. Just to add a final binding, I wrapped him, neck to waist, in Ace bandages, giving them a good snug fit as I spooled them out. If nothing else, and if he could get loose, he'd be fouled in the coiling bandages long enough for me to grab my gun and shoot him.

Just to be on the safe side, I gave him another bump of Fentanyl and rested for a moment. Quick work was stripping off the rest of my suit then changed into some gym shorts and a T shirt, easier to work in, easy to dispose of and, in the event of blood spatter, no dry cleaner to explain to-I planned to burn all our clothes. I had a tray of instruments ready but the first job was going to be cleaning him up or, as is said in hospitals, prepping him for surgery. I'd caught a break, he shaved his nuts, cock and surrounding area so all I needed to do was do some clean up work then remove a bit more than he had. I'm a believer in a close shave so I used my shaving soap, badger hair brush, lathered him with that. Which was about the time he came to, or sort of.

I thought about loosening the gag but then thought better of it. In fact, just to be on the safe side, I found another Ace bandage and gave it several turns around the pole and over his mouth. In fact, what he was saying was pretty clear, if you knew the words he'd normally use. I was about finished shaving and paused. Sitting on the floor, cleaning up after the shave what was going to happen was explained to him in my usual calm fashion. Max and I were disgusted with the trouble he was causing and, as a reminder to calm down, he was to be castrated. He didn't take it well particularly as he knew I could do it, had done it to guys before (he'd helped tie them up), and that if Max and I had decided this would be done, then they were gone. But I was a bit lenient.

“I thought about this on the way home, Max made it my call as to how it's done, when, where, you know the why. Also, it may be that I was given the choice of offing you or nutting you. I don't say that but you might think about it and wonder what if...”

There wasn't much more to be said. I got my tray of instruments, clean water, pulled on the latex gloves and picked up a scalpel, sealed for sanitary purposes. In my hand it just didn't feel quite right, not the actual weight some how but...I wondered if it would make our point? Steve was hard headed and learned things very slowly so this wasn't going to be a quick fix. Actually, I'd thought about pride cutting him, an old horse expression when only one of the testicles are removed; Stallions still have the urge to fuck although they are technically geldings. The feeling was that this made them meaner, a better horse for hard work. Or that was the theory. That also involved some rather technical surgery beyond what I could do. But still, the scalpel...

Even bound and gagged you could see he was watching developments with horror and, maybe, fear. After all, you're only a man, at least in his eyes, when you have the sack full and if you don't, well.....And then it came to me, for whatever dumb reasons, he'd spent some childhood summers on a farm so was familiar with farm equipment. One of the things Max had, carefully, suggested to me was that he'd be happier if maximum pain was involved; When you pissed us off, there was no forgiveness or mercy. What else could do that but a slowly applied burdizzo? I could always cut his nuts off afterwords if I felt like it. And as fate, and veterinary supply would have it, I had a burdizzo.

When he saw it, saw it come toward his bag of balls, knew what it did, could almost feel the cold steel hunt down his spermatic cords to break them, just as he's done with calves to make them steers, I could see he could appreciated my selection.

He passed out a few times, each time I'd clamp a bit more and, in the end, he was sterile. Just to give him one final moment of pleasure, with the burdizzo in place, I jacked him off and, after he shot, I wondered why he he'd never fathered a child based volume of cum produced? Unless he was already sterile in which case, nemesis got him twice. I allowed thirty minutes per side just to make sure. And then I cut his nuts off, throwing them in the garbage disposal.

I know Max will be pleased, certainly I am, and as for Steve....?