Caught in Island Intrigue

Night had fallen and tiki torches were dancing their flames in the breeze from the sea as the two fucked on a lounge bed by the hotel pool. The young black, muscular stud, who said he was the tennis pro at a local club, was clutching Wade, the young, blond American, by the waist on each side, assisting in the fuck, as Wade rose and fell on the ebony god’s cock in a cowboy position. As they fucked, the hotel barman padded out with two beers on a tray, set the beers down on the patio table next to the lounge bed, watched the fuck for a brief moment, and then turned and padded back toward the lights of the hotel lobby.

They had met on the beach near twilight, both young and body beautiful in contrasting skin tones, both in skimpy Speedos. Neither saying more than a few words establishing agreement and sensing what each wanted, they had kissed and fondled, reclining on beach towels, while watching the sunset. This area of the beach was a gathering place for gays, so little was needed in establishing preferences.

Wade let the tennis pro move his hand under the waistband of his Speedo, pull it down, and hook it under Wade’s balls to play with Wade’s engorging cock and balls. He even let the black stud lean over and taste his cock, but when a black hand went under the ball sac and the tennis guy put his mouth to Wade’s ear and whispered, “I want to fuck you,” Wade rolled over on his belly, forcing the black hand to retreat. Misinterpreting, the hand moved under the waistband in back, fingers going down into Wade’s crack.

“No, I don’t think so,” Wade said, rolling over again and causing the black guy to pull his hand away.

“You don’t take cock?” the black guy asked.

“We’re on the beach. Anyone could walk by.”

“I like to fuck in public and this is a hookup area,” came the response. “And that wasn’t a ‘no.’”

Before Wade could answer again, the black guy was bringing their faces together and was taking Wade into a kiss. Wade gave a low moan, not just at the kiss but because a black hand was wrapped around his cock again. The hand eased up on the pressure, and Wade’s hips were moving. His pelvis rocked up into the hand, his cock using the curled fingers as a sheath to fuck, while the kiss continued. The black stud came out of the kiss and looked down into Wade’s face while he slid Wade’s Speedo off his legs. Wade just smiled, not trying to prevent the loss of the bathing suit.

“So, it isn’t a ‘no’,” the black stud murmured.

“It’s not a ‘no’,” Wade answered.

“I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you, here, now, on the beach, in public.”

Wade didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop the black stud’s hand from roaming.

Having lost the Speedo, the black stud’s hand slowly glided back up between Wade’s legs, coaxing them to open. The hand left off that momentarily to stroke Wade’s hip and to remark on how narrow the young man’s pelvis was, as if, like others who had been with Wade, he was going to marvel at how taxing it might be to split the difference between Wade’s hip bones with his cock. For some reason men liked to think they would be taxing Wade that way, forcing a passage open beyond its normal endurance. The mark of a real stud. Realizing that, Wade often played to it when a man was penetrating him.

“I’m going to fuck you. Now. Here.” The tennis pro was more assertive. Again, Wade didn’t contradict him.

His hand returned to the inside of Wade’s thighs and Wade, having enticingly left his thighs parted, spread his legs further, bending them, and placing his feet flat on the sand. He lifted his tail in a signal of acquiescence. An ebony finger penetrated him again. Wade grunted and covered the hand with one of his as if to try to pull it away. But the black man persisted, pushing the finger in further. Wade gave a little moan and surrendered, his legs going to gelatin, quivering but still raising his tail in a “take me” position; his body relaxing and opening; his arms dangling uselessly at his side, as the finger started to move inside him, fucking him. Wade’s pelvis rocked gently against the motion of the finger fucking.

“OK, then fuck me,” he whispered. “But not for free. 50 euros. Not anything like I usually get, but it’s the principle. I don’t fuck a stranger for free. 50 euros and take me to your club and let me score with club members there tomorrow or take a hike. Make this worth my while.”

Using the leverage of his feet, Wade raised his buttocks higher off the towel, taking two fingers deep, and the tennis pro reached for the clutch he’d been carrying with his free hand, extracted 50 euros, and placed them at Wade’s elbow. He didn’t leave and Wade stayed there, tail raised. The black pressed the heel of his hand under Wade’s balls, a third finger penetrating and the three of them spreading, opening up Wade’s hole. The black stud had obviously gone this preparation route before. His cock was mammoth.

Wade groaned and the black stud’s face came back down to take Wade’s mouth in a kiss while the fingers moved inside Wade’s passage and Wade raised his tail higher and the black stud buried his fingers deeper. The stud’s knuckles were rubbing Wade’s rim. Wade rocked on them.

“You gonna try to fist me?” he murmured, pulling out of the kiss.

“Maybe,” came the answer. “You want me to?”

“Not for 50 euros,” Wade answered. Laughing, the black stud took Wade’s mouth in his. Wade gasped through the lip lock as the fourth finger entered him.

He pulled away from the kiss and said, “Just a cock fuck. But not here. Come up to my room. In the hotel.”

“Shit,” the black stud hissed, but he was smiling.

“We can spend the night fucking there if you can keep it up.”

“OK, but suck me here. For 50 euros you will give me a good time,” he said, flopping over on his back, and raising his torso on his elbows. “I still like to do it in public. The risk makes me hard. Suck me here or take a hike.” He laughed.

They both knew this was going the distance to an anal fuck.

“I’ll bet that isn’t the only thing that makes you hard,” Wade said, readjusting his position. “Fuck, you’re big,” he uttered.

“That’s why I have to open you good first.”

Wade then showed that being exposed in public wasn’t the only thing that made the black tennis pro hard. Wade sucked the black stud’s cock, lying between the young man’s spread, muscular legs, and working on deep throating him, as the black stud ran his fingers into Wade’s blond curls, guided the American’s head with his hands, and moaned his appreciation.

The tennis pro got more of what he wanted, though. They only made it as far as the pool terrace before moving on to the main event.

When the bartender was gone, the black stud rose, turned the two on the lounge bed, with Wade’s head dangling over the end, looking toward the pool. Wade raised and spread his legs wide, and the black stud thrust inside him and started to fuck him in earnest. Wade turned his head to make sure the 50 euros he was being paid was still on the top of the patio table and then turned his eyes to follow the dancing light on the pool surface from the flaming tiki torches, as the black stud fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Wade gave the tennis pro a good time, in keeping with his professional status.

* * * *

Antoine De Chastaigne, a forty-year-old French sugarcane planter from Le Vaucin, across the island of Martinique from the coastal town of Sainte-Luce, pulled his sedan up to the door of the Ti’Paradis beach hotel, twelve miles up the coast from Sainte-Luce, put his arm around the shoulder of the young, handsome blond in the passenger seat, and pulled the young man to him. Both of them were in tennis togs and were coming from a Sainte-Luce club, where the large, robust Frenchmen had narrowly defeated the younger, smaller, perfectly formed American, who was bumming his way around the Caribbean and going by the name of William Bendix, although his real name was Wade. The two had met earlier that day in the tennis club’s bar, where Antoine had watched another club member intimately touching Wade before leaving him in the bar.

Wade wasn’t a club member, but he had been brought into the club by the tennis pro.

Grasping and controlling the young American’s head with a beefy hand, De Chastaigne, swiveled Wade’s head around, leaned over, and possessed the young man’s lips with his. Wade opened his lips to the invading tongue, signaling his surrender. The Frenchman’s free hand wormed its way between the hem of Wade’s T-shirt in front and the waistband of his tennis shorts to palm, briefly, the young man’s flat belly. Then, as the kiss deepened, the hand slid down below the waistband. Wade raised his pelvis, pressing himself into the Frenchman’s searching hand. Wade reached over and cupped the Frenchman’s crotch, finding the rim of the glans through the material and pressing in where the bulb met the shaft. The Frenchman was in erection. He shuddered. Wade unzipped him and encased the now-exposed cock in his fist, his thumb returning to the rim where the bulb met the shaft. He moved the thumb around the base of the bulb pushing the foreskin further back. The Frenchman shuddered again.

“I have to have you,” the Frenchman murmured.

“All things are possible,” Wade responded.

The deal was sealed as long as the price was right. Wade’s work with the cock made it more likely that the price would be fine.

Coming out of another kiss, De Chastaigne said, “I want to come up to your room.”

Wade smiled and said, “That would cost you 150 more euros—up front.” There already were 50 euros clutched in Wade’s right hand, which he had pressed into the sedan’s dashboard, holding himself steady in the kiss. The doorman, young, handsome, and black, was patiently waiting just outside the door, ready to hold it for Wade when he opened it.

De Chastaigne laughed, fumbled 150 more euros out of his wallet and laid the bills on the top of the dashboard.

“Room 18,” Wade said. “Better zip up, though, before you park and come up.” He reached over and pulled the zipper up on De Chastaigne’s tennis shorts. Wade had already earned 50 euros by sucking the French planter off in the parking lot of the tennis club.

He opened the passenger door of the sedan and stepped out of the car as the doorman held it for him. “Thank you, Garon,” Wade said and smiled. The doorman’s eyes twitched but he otherwise was a nonseeing statue. He closed the passenger-side car door as Wade entered the beach hotel and De Chastaigne drove on to the parking lot.

Upstairs, having paid the price, De Chastaigne took command and dominated. He was horny and impatient. From the time he entered the room, he used his leverage as the buyer, the larger, and the rougher to manipulate Wade to his will. He crowded and manhandled the younger man, stripping him down, pressing him against the wall beside the door and kissing and roughly fondling him, until he had Wade naked. Wade tried to slow him down, but the man gave him a mean eye, slapped him across the face, and grabbed and squeezed Wade’s balls, causing the young man to sink to his knees and to take the Frenchman’s cock in his mouth again.

Wade took it like the pro that he was. And he didn’t try to throw the man out of his room or call for assistance. This was all according to a plan, all business as usual in the high-end rent-boy profession.

De Chastaigne carried Wade to the bed; laid him down, butt on the edge of the foot of the bed; and sank down between his thighs. He placed one heavy palm on Wade’s lower belly to psychologically hold the young man in place—Wade had tried to rise only to be slapped down again. The young man had only shown some contrariness because he correctly gauged that the Frenchman wanted some opposition to slap down, some sense of getting what he wanted by force—getting his money’s worth. The older man grasped Wade’s cock with the other hand and buried his face between the young man’s butt cheeks.

Muttering, “Yes, yes, work me, daddy,” Wade panted and moaned, arching his back, and throwing his arms out to the side, grasping wads of bedspread in his hands, as the Frenchman feasted on his hole and stroked his cock. “Oh, shit, daddy. Yes! You’re an animal. Work me.” Wade didn’t have to pretend to like this. Frenchmen were masters of the mouth work.

The French planter worked Wade’s hole and cock until the young man came and then he rose, grabbed Wade’s ankles and raised and spread the young man’s legs, thrust inside Wade’s passage, and roughly fucked him to his own ejaculation.

“Oh, shit! Oh, Fuck! Yes, DADDY!”

Wade, bought and sold, manhandled and mastered, lay there, panting and groaning as De Chastaigne took his pleasure, slapped Wade on the buttocks upon withdrawal, pulled his tennis togs back on, and left the room.

A half hour later, showered, freshened, and dressed in linen slacks, open-toed sandals, and a gauzy shirt, open almost to his navel and showing the glitter of a gold chain on a tan, nice muscled, smooth chest, Wade walked into the hotel bar and past a desk attendant, who gave him a sharp look.

He eased himself onto a barstool next to a hefty black man in a well-tailored tan linen suit. The man was maybe fifty and just a bit pudgy, although he was well muscled. He also was ugly as sin and had three empty glasses in front of him. The bartender showed up with a fourth scotch, neat, and moved to take the three empties away, but the black man reached out with a beefy hand, decked out with three flashy rings, and stopped the removal.

“I want to know how far along I am,” he said. The bartender grunted and moved off. He gave Wade a brief look and sniffed before he moved on. He didn’t take a drink order from the young man.

“You have a goal?” Wade asked, giving the man a little smile and half laugh.

“Until boredom is forgotten,” the man said.

“Didn’t I see you in here last night?” Wade asked.

“I was here,” the man answered.

“With a young man?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t help you escape boredom?”

“For a while, he did.”

Wade could well imagine that. He’d looked down from the window of his hotel room between three and four that morning and watched the ambulance take the young man away on a stretcher.

“There’s no need for you to be bored today,” Wade said, boldly reaching out and touching the man’s forearm. The man didn’t withdraw from the touch. “Buy a boy a drink?”

The man signaled to the bartender, who showed up with a beer. He already knew what Wade drank.

“Are you staying at the hotel?” Wade asked.

“No. I have a jewelry store nearby. I come here to escape the local women trying to bargain me down.”

“Ah, yes, women can be such a nuisance,” Wade said.

“Yes, they can,” came the response. “I much prefer young men.”

“I’m Bill. William Bendricks,” Wade said, putting a hand on the bulky black man’s knee. “I’m American. Just roaming around, discovering the Caribbean, and enjoying myself. I’m staying here, Room 18.”

“Alone? Are you here alone?” the man said. “I’m Pierre Cardiene. Cardiene’s Jewels. Just down the road.”

“And does Cardiene’s have nice jewels?” Wade asked, moving his hand so that his index finger touched the man’s basket. He felt movement there. “Yes, I’m on the island alone,” he continued. “But I’m not always in my room alone. Sometimes I have company.”

One of the man’s hands slid into the opening of Wade’s shirt and briefly palmed Wade’s left pec. Wade didn’t move away, so the hand slid down his torso to cupping his basket.

“Do men pay you to be in your room with you, Bill?” the man asked.

“Of course. That’s part of their fantasy. Getting all that they want because they paid for it.”

“All that they want?”

“Yes. I melt to a man who wants it all,” Wade answered, giving the jeweler a level stare to ensure the man understood his meaning. Wade knew the man wanted to take his pleasure brutally.

“And how much does it cost for a man to be in your room with you, Bill?” Pierre asked.

“200 euros, up front. Room 18. Give me ten minutes before you come up. The man at the front desk is hawkeyed.”

Wade really hardly needed to worry about the hotel staff. The bartender was right there, behind the bar, taking everything in.

“The staff here and I have an understanding,” Cardiene assured him, reaching for his wallet.

Forty-five minutes later, Wade rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed. He briefly did an inventory of the bruises on his body, the worst being around his throat. It could have been worse—much worse. He had techniques to move a session from the beating to the fucking and he had successfully employed those.

He opened the nightstand drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and lit up. A naked jewelry store owner lay on his back behind him, on the bed, looking like a beached ebony walrus. He was stroking his unsheathed cock, having stripped the used condom off and tossed it to the side while he was still on his back. He was looking at the nicely tapering-down back of the rent-boy. Most of the now-bluish bruise spots were around in front. The sounds he had made in sex indicated that he had enjoyed the young, flexible, lightly tanned body of the Caucasian American. Wade, in turn, had been surprised by the vigor and staying power of the man. The jeweler reached over and stroked Wade’s back, his hand gliding up to Wade’s cheek. Wade winced as the man’s thumb stroked the bruise under Wade’s eye. The young man turned his face toward the hand, opened his mouth, took the man’s thumb in, and sucked on it. Cardiene shuddered in pleasure. Wade knew men liked that touch.

The man’s hands went to Wade’s waist and he lifted and turned the young man. He wanted to fuck again. Wade took another condom packet from the drawer of the nightstand as he planted his knees on either side of the man’s thighs.

“This one’s for free,” Wade murmured, “as long as you let me control.” He knew men liked that too, taking it as an indication that the rent-boy could see them as a lover and not just a john. Of course, Wade only saw him as a john, though, but one who might pay to use him again.

Cardiene’s cock was proudly erect, long and thick and throbbing, while Wade rode him in a cowboy fuck. The shaft deflated significantly after he’d shot off. Wade rolled off the man and sat on the side of the bed, staring at the door into the bathroom. Was he free to hobble into the bathroom, groaning at the damage the man had done with his fists while working himself up to fuck the first time? Was it over? Something inside Wade told him it wasn’t. He turned and looked at the man stretched out behind him in the bed. He was working it up again now. Wade hadn’t thought the man had multiple loads in him, but he was wrong.

Wade felt the mattress groan and move, as Cardiene sat up and moved to sit behind Wade, encasing the younger, smaller, trimmer man’s body with his, Cardiene’s legs encasing Wade’s thighs, his arms encircling Wade’s torso, his fingers working Wade’s nipples, his face buried in Wade’s neck, and his hardening cock and pronounced paunch pressing at Wade’s lower back.

Pierre’s right hand encased Wade’s cock, and he was stroking the young man off as he kissed the back of Wade’s neck. The young man looked down and watched the ebony hand, with the three elaborate rings, working his cock. The man was going to fuck him again.

“This one can’t be free. Sorry,” Wade whispered. There had to be limits.

“That’s fine. I’ll pay.”

Wade liked that the man was giving him attention, and the blackness of the man turned him on, despite his heaviness. He felt himself hardening again. He could do another fuck. The man was fat, but not grossly so. He was strong and muscular too. And his cock hardened out to a good length and girth. Wade had felt it inside him. He’d been stretched and challenged by it. The man had stamina. Wade had ridden him for nearly twenty minutes in the cowboy session before Cardiene had shot his load.

Wade groaned and started to pant. He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray on the top of the nightstand and pushed the nightstand drawer closed, after extracting another condom packet. The two they had already used lay on the floor in front of him, thick as slugs with cum. The man had shot off repeatedly and produced more than Wade could have imagined. All of the men down here were big shooters, he had found. The black tennis pro had put four notches on his belt the previous night, once on the pool terrace, once on the floor of Room 18, and twice on the bed.

The bottle of lube was sitting on the top of the nightstand. After deftly reaching back and crowning the man, Wade bent over and grasped his ankles with his hands. He pushed up on his feet, raising his buttocks off the edge of the bed. With a little laugh, Cardiene took his right hand from where it had been palming Wade’s belly after pulling an ejaculation out of the young man’s cock and adjusted the bulb of his erection at the rim of Wade’s hole. Wade rocked back, taking the cock inside his passage, and, grasping Wade’s hips between his hand, the jeweler, fingers still flashing gawdy rings, pulled Wade’s passage on and off his cock.

“Such slim hips,” the jeweler murmured. “I can almost make my fingers meet. It’s a pleasure to watch myself move between your hips.”

Yes, I’ve heard that before, Wade thought, but he did say that. Instead he moaned and said, “Fuck me good, daddy. Punish me. You’re so big.” He wanted to leave the impression that the punishment should be applied by the man’s cock, not his fists.

After a few minutes of this, Cardiene gripped Wade’s legs under his knees and lifted and spread them, taking over all of the movement of the fuck. Wade focused his eyes on the ebony hands gripping his lightly tanned legs, reveled in the contrast of the skin tones, and turned his face to accept the kiss and to suck on the jeweler’s tongue, as Cardiene, big, strong, black, pulled him on and off the cock.

An hour after Pierre Cardiene, humming happily, left him to return to his jewelry store, Wade was walking through the hotel lobby, clicking along in his sandals, wearing a skimpy neon-blue Speedo, topped by a red T-shirt, and headed for the beach behind the hotel. The desk clerk watched him go with a little smirk on his face.

Wade came out of the surf as a policeman, whose beat was the beach to ensure the protection of foreign tourists on the heavily petty crime-infested island, walked by. The policeman, whose name was Vin, short for Vincent, was young, as young as Wade, in his early twenties, handsome as sin, and bulked up. He was wearing the summer regulation local police uniform of dark blue shorts and T-shirt, both seemingly spray painted on his muscular body. His eyes made contact with Wade’s as he passed and the two smiled at each other.

The police and young men using this area of the beach had an understanding. The policemen didn’t hassle the young men as long as they were given privileges. None of the young men objected to giving Vin privileges.

Wade went to his towel and laid back, feet pointed at the sea, legs spread and bent, and he dozed. Vin passed him coming and going two more times, and each time, Wade raised himself on his elbows, let his legs spread, and smiled at the beach policeman. Yes, if you want, is what he was signaling.

Vin wanted.

On the next pass, Vin came right by where Wade was on the beach. He leaned down and touched Wade on the knee. Wade smiled up at him and moved a hand to his basket. Vin cupped his own basket with one of his hands, smiled, and nodded toward the restroom hut at the foot of the stairs up to the hotel pool terrace.

Kneeling in front of the policeman, whose shorts were puddled on the ground at his feet, in the foliage at the back of the restroom hut, with Vin holding Wade’s hands in his fists, Wade gave the handsome, muscular, young, ebony policeman expert head. The young policeman had a monster cock; Wade barely could get it in his mouth. But he managed.

When Vin lifted Wade up, turned the young man’s back to the wooden wall of the hut, and coaxed Wade’s legs to hook onto his hips, Wade whispered, “Maybe we should take this upstairs. I’m in Room 18.”

“I’ve heard you charge.”

“For you, just 20 euros,” Wade whispered, pleased that it was known the beach that he was for sale. “Just for the pride of it.”

Vin snorted. “Too much.”

“OK, take what you want. One Euro--or free, if you insist. But just because you’re a god; not because you’re a cop.”

Vin took what he wanted—for free—and Wade loved having a young, hung, black bull stud inside him. They rocked together, making sweet harmony, intimately embracing, in a missionary, with Wade arching his head back and crying, “Yes, yes, fuck me” to the ceiling, as Vin pounded and pounded away inside him. They finished with Vin bending Wade over the bed on his belly, grasping the young Americans wrists and pulling his arms cruelly back, while Vin stood between Wade’s thighs and thrust, thrust, thrust. Again, Wade was crying out an uncontrolled, “Yes, yes. Like that. Deep. Take me hard.”

Vin had taken him hard. Wade hadn’t reacted like an in-control rent-boy. He’d reacted as a ravished, satisfied customer himself.

He lay there, arms akimbo, on the bed, watching Vin redress in his policeman’s summer uniform.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you that you are under arrest,” Vin said when he was dressed. He produced handcuffs from his equipment belt.

“Why?” Wade asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Vin said. “For prostitution.”

“But we’ve just—”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for your well-being for you to say anything about what we just did,” Vin said. “Here in Sainte-Luce, that would be considered as legitimate gathering of evidence. I had to be sure the charges were true.”

“So, you were just doing your duty,” Wade snapped. “You didn’t enjoy it a bit. You’re straight.”

“What do you think?” Vin said, giving Wade a grin.

“I think you enjoyed it.” Vin didn’t answer, but he didn’t drop the grin either.

Before he hauled Wade in, dragging him past the desk clerk; the bartender, who had come to the bar door; and the doorman, all giving him knowing looks, Vin had dropped 20 euro at Wade’s feet, completing the basis of the prostitution charge.

* * * *

The arraignment of William Bendix was brief on the charge of vagrancy and prostitution, and as the hotel desk clerk, bartender, and doorman and policeman, Vin, gave testimony, it seemed almost as if Wade had wanted to be caught engaging in prostitution.

Vin guided Wade to a jail cell at the police building in Sainte-Luce. It seemed that Vin was going to be his jailer as well—and to continue to take privileges. Wade was sitting on the side of his cot, his left wrist restrained on a chain anchored in the wall that permitted him to reach only as far as the hole in the floor with a bucket of water beside it in the corner of the cell, when Vin came in with a supper tray. The hunky policeman closed the cell door behind him and held the tray up.

“Why did you arrest me? I thought guys like me had an arrangement with the police in that area of the beach.”

“Maybe I want to have you to myself for a while. My impression was that you would like bondage and a bit of rough. I’m sure you know what you’ll have to do for your supper,” he said. “The system here is more than just the police on patrol too. Some of you young men have to grease the poles of others up the line in the system. It’s your turn. And, by that, I mean take the greased poles of others up the line.”

Wade didn’t know what he’d have to do to earn his dinner, but he could guess—and he guessed correctly. Vin sat on the side of the cot, his shorts puddled on the floor at his feet, while Wade sat in his lap, facing him, Vin’s fists clasped behind Wade’s lower back and Wade’s fists clasped behind the policeman’s neck, while Wade rose and fell on the young black bull’s cock. This wasn’t exactly singing for your supper, but it was close enough.

He didn’t even think of trying to escape. But then if he had, that would ruin everything.

Three days later, Vin took Wade upstairs to meet the police chief, Baghel Bisette, the tallest, most imposing and muscular black man Wade had ever seen. Wade was made to stand in front of the police chief, who was sitting on the other side of the desk in his office chair, which would have looked oversized if it wasn’t sized about right for the man. Even with him sitting, Wade could tell that the man had to be well over six-and-a-half feet tall and with a massive torso—not fat, muscular. He also was dark ebony. He was thuggish in features and coarse, but it all came together as complete command and authority. Wade had no question that in his building—and perhaps on this island, Baghel Bisette ruled and did as he wished.

“What have you been convicted of, boy?” Bisette asked gruffly?

“I haven’t been convicted of anything,” Wade answered, keeping his voice respectful. He knew the police chief held all of the cards here. And he hadn’t been convicted yet. He’d just been arraigned.

“Don’t get smart with me,” Bisette boomed. “You’re in here for prostitution, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Wade answered. He realized he was in this prison whether he was convicted of anything or not. He was completely at the mercy of this big, black mountain of a man. Wade, being Wade, couldn’t help trembling a bit and beginning to harden up. Was the man as big everywhere as he presented in his chair. “But I haven’t been arraigned for anything yet.”

“And I would think you don’t want to be arraigned,” Bisette said. “Which should make you fully cooperative here.”

Then he took a surprising tack—if Wade hadn’t anticipated and hoped for such a pathway for the encounter to take. “This prostitution wasn’t with women, was it?”

“Not usually, no,” Wade answered, but not wanting to abandon the truth that he would go with a woman too if he needed to.

“It is with men. Men mount you and fuck you.”

“Yes, sir,” Wade answered, dipping his head and giving a little smile, a signal, if Bisette was into such things, that Wade would be submissive to him.

“They mount you like a dog or from the front, holding your legs out?” He was almost licking his chops.

“Whatever they pay for.”

“You any good?” Bisette growled, and then when Wade didn’t answer immediately, the police chief looked over his shoulder at the policeman, Vin, standing behind Wade at the office door. “He any good as a lay, Vincent?”

“Yes, sir,” Vin answered. “He’s a sweet lay, sir, and his ass can do a great job at squeezing your dick as you fuck him.”

“You got a soft mouth, boy?” Bisette asked. “He give good head, does he, Vincent?”

“Yes, sir. He sucks the cum right out of you, sir.”

“Come around here and get on your knees and show me, boy,” the police chief commanded. And Wade did as directed, finding to his delight that the man, who already had it out and swiveled his chair around, had an extraordinarily thick python between his thighs. He gave the police chief expert head, while Bisette held the young man’s head between his hands and directed the suck.

The police chief, Baghel Bisette, laid Wade on the top of his desk, putting the young man on his back and, still sitting in his swivel chair, bending and pushing Wade’s knees up into his chest, and feasting on the young man’s cock, balls, and hole, until, panting and moaning deeply, Wade gave up a load. Then Bisette rose from his chair, hovered over the smaller young man, took some of Wade’s huffing and exclaiming time forcing his python of a shaft up into Wade’s channel, and fucked the stuffing out of him.

Crying out how good he was getting it and burying his fingernails into the black man’s giant guns, wrapping his legs around the black bull’s lower back, and going with the fuck, Wade surprised and delighted Bisette in not only going with the fuck but also enhancing it. Wade set his pelvis in coordinated motion with Bisette’s thrusts and willed the muscles of his passage walls stretch open for, grasp, and undulate over the massive cock as the police chief fucked him.

Bisette motioned Vin forward and, as Wade let his head arch back over the front edge of the desk, the black policeman unleashed his cock, pressed it between Wade’s lips, and went deep, massaging Wade’s throat with his hands to coax Wade into deep throating him.

When both the police chief and the beach patrolman had ejaculated at separate ends of Wade, Bisette pulled out, laughed, and said, “Yes, Vincent, the boy is a sweet, professional lay.”

And to Wade, he said, “Would you like to serve your time in a comfortable house on the beach, with privileges of going into Saint-Lucie and plying your trade and sleeping in my bed, or do you want to remain in a prison cell here?”

Bingo, Wade thought. That was no choice really, and it was what he was angling for. Of course he opted for Bisette’s house on the beach. He didn’t even repeat that there was no sentence yet—that he hadn’t been arraigned yet. He fully understood what he had to do if he didn’t want there to be an arraignment at all.

* * * *

They were building to a climax—another climax. They had been fucking for three weeks. Wade was on his back on Baghel Bisette’s bed at his seafront home at the western end of Saint-Lucie. The massive, black bull of a police chief was on top of him, between his spread and bent thighs, embracing him close, an arm wrapped around the young man’s lower back, raising his hips, giving access to Bisette to bottom in him as he stroked and stroked and stroked. He’d been thrusting for nearly fifteen minutes and was close to climax. Wade had already come up the black man’s muscular, Zeus-like belly. Wade gasped and cried out, “Yes, Yes. Give it to me!” He arched his shoulders and head back, set his eyes to watching the whop, whop, whop of the ceiling fan over the bed, and concentrated on the hard shaft throbbing deep inside him as Bisette tensed, jerked, and released; tensed, jerked, and released; tensed, jerked, and released.

Bisette immediately rolled off Wade and stood by the bed. He rolled the spent condom off his mammoth cock and tossed it expertly into a trash basket by the bed. With a sigh, Wade reached over, opened the drawer to a nightstand, and pulled out another condom disk.

“No, we don’t have time for another now,” Bisette said with a satisfied laugh. He’d latched onto a firecracker with this young, blond American.

“You always take time,” Wade said, giving the big black man a saucy smile.

“It’s only three in the afternoon,” the police chief said.

“And your point is?” Wade responded. “Come back to bed. Do me in a doggie this time.”

Bisette snorted. “I have an appointment. Can’t you hear them downstairs?” And then he had withdrawn into the bathroom, and Wade watched him, through the open door, take a piss and a shower and brush his teeth before coming back into the bedroom to dress. The man, despite his age, had the physique of a god. Wade was having no trouble at all “suffering through” this serving of his sentence.

He had, in fact, heard the men arriving. He was very much tuned to what was happening in this house—events happening beyond the edges of this bed, where he’d spent most of his time since the police brought him here from the jailcell. When Bisette wasn’t at the house, fucking him, Vin or one of the other black island policemen were. They were all studs. Wade was bred to this; he didn’t mind this aspect of his job.

After Bisette had dressed and gone downstairs, Wade padded, naked, over to a window looking out over the roof of a porch attached to the back of the house to the seafront, with a short beach and a long, narrow wooden pier extending out into the Caribbean. He could hear voices coming from the covered porch below and three cigarette speedboats tied up to the end of the pier. They hadn’t been there before. Dressing in shorts and sandals, he quietly stole downstairs and out the front, land-side of the house and around the corner. Vin was standing in the bushes near the back edge of the main house where the back porch was attached. He was nestling a submachine gun in his arms, clearly on guard for whatever was happening on the porch.

Giving Vin a smile, Wade approached him and went down on his knees in front of the policeman. Not one to pass up an offer, Vin unzipped himself, took out his cock, and let Wade go down on it. While he sucked the hunky black policeman off, Wade listened to the conversation that was going on Of course, the porch between Bisette and an unknown number of other men.

As Wade finished the blow job, Bisette came around the side of the house.

“There you are, Bill,” he said, helping Wade to get up off his knees. The man didn’t seem to mind at all that Wade had been sucking off one of the men he had put on guard duty.

“I have some friends on the porch I’d like you to meet,” the police chief said.

There turned out to be a dozen men, all fit, both blacks and whites and even an Asian or two. They chattered among themselves and were boisterous, drinking the police chief’s beer, as they laid Wade on his back on a patio table, pulled his shorts and briefs off his legs, and took turns fucking him. Bisette stood by, beaming over a successful gangbang party.

* * * *

Wade wasn’t doing anything, at least on the surface, that the police chief had said he couldn’t do when he allowed himself to be invited to sit with the tall, good-looking older man at the beachside open-air café on the Rue de la Plage in Saint-Luce. Bisette and the policemen who lived with him and acted as his bodyguards, including Vin, were at work in the town. Bisette had said that Wade could continue coming into Saint-Luce to ply his prostitution trade when he wasn’t wanted by Bisette. Yes, Wade thought it was peculiar that while he, technically, was being jailed, despite not being convicted, for prostitution, the local police would permit him to continue taking tricks from men, but this was the “whatever” Caribbean.

The man was very interested. He leaned over and took one of Wade’s hands in his while they were waiting for their beer to arrive and he was rubbing his thumb against Wade’s open palm. Wade closed his fingers loosely over the thumb and the man kept stroking with the thumb as they looked into each other’s eyes and engaged in superficial chat. The thumb work was establishing a top’s hookup (the man) with a submissive (Wade).

After they received their drinks, the man took his wallet out of his pocket and put some bills in U.S. money by where Wade’s hand was poised. Wade swept the money up and put it in his pocket. Wade hadn’t established a price and the man hadn’t asked what it was. Anyone being able to hear them whispering to each other might have paused with that, but no one at the café did.

“What have you learned?” the man asked, leaning close in to Wade across the small table. “Is it a coup? Is Bisette involved in organizing a coup here? Or is it something else?”

“I don’t think it’s a coup,” Wade murmured. “He’s had a couple of meetings at the house over the last week. A dozen men each time. The same men.” Wade didn’t say how he knew they were the same men, but he did know they were the same, because they’d gangbanged him, with Bisette’s complicity. “They arrive by speedboat. I think they are the pirates you’ve mentioned that are buzzing around here and causing havoc. I think Bisette might be running the pirates rather than planning a coup.”

“Ah, yes, that would make sense. Not the problem we thought it might be but a problem nonetheless,” Sam Winterberry, the man who was running this CIA operation in the Caribbean said. “Good work. We’d like you to remain with Bisette for now. Keep an eye on him and confirm what he is engaged in. Be there when we decide what to do with this.”

“I think I can manage that,” Wade said, keeping the smile of the prospect of continuing to lie under the big black bull to himself.

“But for now, I’m staying at the Bris Marine off the Gros Raisen. I will leave first and you follow behind me.”

“So, you want to . . . ?”

“We must be seen to be carrying out this assignation if anyone is keeping an eye on you. And, yes, I will fuck you.”

And he did. Sam Winterberry, despite his age, was an expert cocksman. Wade lay at the foot of the bed, legs raised and spread, ankles fisted by the American spy’s hands, while, crouching between Wade’s thighs, buried deep inside the young man’s passage, Winterberry showed how he kept his men in line. Wade gasped and writhed and cried out in passion as Winterberry’s long cock found and played in the young man’s soft core.

This spy job wasn’t bad for a young man with Wade’s tastes, proclivities, and needs, the young man thought—not bad at all.