Carlos was finishing his set on the drums when he saw his two minders move toward the gambling floor of the Toscana. He took advantage of that to lay his sticks aside and hop off the platform at one end of the club’s floorshow room. Looking as nonchalant as he could, he sauntered back to the murky corner where the big bruiser was sitting at a table alone, chain smoking and repeatedly tossing back scotch shots.

It wasn’t a one-way approach. The man had been looking intently at Carlos.

Carlos knew the man’s name was Angus MacLoid. He was staying at the Amatique Bay Resort in Puerto Barrios on Guatemala’s Mexican Gulf coast and had his sailboat tied up in the resort’s marina just as Carlos Arana did. Carlos had first spied the man two days previously when they both were doing maintenance on their boats.

MacLoid was just the right type of big stud that Carlos liked and melted to—the reason why Carlos’ father, Guatemala’s agriculture minister, Francisco Arana, had Carlos tied up with two bodyguards. Despite being barely legal, Carlos had already proven to be a satyriasis—he couldn’t get enough of bruiser cock. Francisco, who doted on his only son, hadn’t seemed to mind this as much when Carlos was keeping it within Francisco’s cartel, where the father could maintain control. But when Carlos had opened his legs for the competition, for Felipe Molina, who was trying to move in on Francisco’s drugs, gambling, and prostitution empire, Francisco had drawn the line. Felipe was now a guest in the basement of Francisco’s summer mansion in Puerto Barrio—which is what brought father and son to the east coast—and Carlos was hobbled with two bodyguards.

Angus MacLoid was built to American Marine standards. Big, heavily muscular, but narrow at the waist, with the flaring, muscular thighs of a soccer player. He was wearing a red Speedo when Carlos first saw him swabbing down his deck two boat slips over. The pouch of the Speedo barely held the man in. His biceps and triceps were massive and well-defined. Without an ounce of fat on him, his veins stood out on his arms, legs, and trunk. It was hard to tell what color his hair was, because he had a Marine-style buzz cut and was otherwise mostly hairless and deeply tanned. When he raised his arms, though, Carlos could see a patch of auburn-colored hair at his pits. His eyes were a watery blue. There was nothing handsome about the individual features of his face, although the eyes were mesmerizing. The features all came together in a chiseled, “don’t mess with me,” commanding whole.

Carlos knew he’d let a man like this do anything with him that he wanted. That was exactly what excited Carlos.

While trying to keep his handlers, who were helping him clean his own sailboat, oblivious, Carlos tried to show the big bruiser his interest. There was every reason to believe it had been noted too. The man did a pose every once in a while that sent the young, small-of stature man of mixed breed into heart palpitations. And more than once during those poses, the hulking man reached down to readjust the big bulge between his legs—looking directly at Carlos when he did it—and while both bodyguards were looking away.

Carlos’ father was Guatemalan, but his mother—two wives ago—was a Scandinavian blonde show girl. Thus, Carlos’ features were not pure Mayan, but were sculpted to the more angular features of his mother and there were natural blond highlights in his hair. He was perhaps more pretty than handsome, which went a long way to explain how the thugs of Francisco’s world had been so anxious to get their dicks inside him—even while they feared the sensitivities of the father to anything like this.

But Francisco was so indulgent that he accepted his son’s sexuality and his interests. He just wanted them to move in channels he could control. When Carlos wasn’t running with any other big bruiser Francisco approved of, one of the bodyguards fucked the young man. Carlos had needs, so he fell in with this, although he preferred a higher-risk partner. And it satisfied Francisco, because it kept the bodyguard alert for anyone else nosing around the young man.

The American—Carlos had found out he was an American named Angus Macleod because he inquired at the resort desk and, being the son of the agriculture minister who also was the local underworld overlord, Carlos’ requests were taken as demands to be accommodated—finished with his boat and was gone before Carlos and his bodyguards were finished with his. Carlos had every intention of hooking up with the big stud, though. It was a matter of doing so without the complication of a bodyguard alerting Francisco. Francisco was wary of all Americans.

Carlos hadn’t just gotten a name and nationality. He’d also found out that MacLoid was a big-time music promoter. And Carlos, taking more pride in his abilities as a drummer than he probably could have beyond Guatemala and the support of his father, was taken with the idea of getting in good with a big-time music promoter—especially one who would manhandle him.

And now, tonight, there he was, in the nightclub room of the Toscana, the new casino Francisco had publicly come to the coast to open—permitting the only son he indulged in most ways to play the drums in the band opening the club. The covert reason for Francisco coming here was to rein his son in from being fucked by Francisco’s opposition in this region, Felipe Molina—a man who was entirely too close to the Guatemalan president—and, if rumors were true, to the Americans—and who was making inroads into Francisco’s drug-running operations from the Puerto Barrios port. Francisco had managed both to end the hookup with Carlos and to seize Molina and was holding Molina prisoner and squeezing him for every ounce of information he possessed before disposing of him in a way that wouldn’t alienate the president—or, at least, that wouldn’t be traced back to Francisco.

MacLoid rose from his table as Carlos approached. There was little in the way foreplay between the two when Carlos reached the table.

“You’re a saucy little piece,” MacLoid growled. “I want to fuck you.”

“Where?” was Carlos’ only reply. Both were looking toward the entrance into the gambling floor from the nightclub, where the two bodyguards were busy cajoling but also subduing a nasty drunk—a drunk, unknown to Carlos, who had been planted by MacLoid.

“Come with me,” MacLoid answered, gripping one of Carlos’ wrists in a fist.

The men’s room was a remote one, but not so remote that men didn’t come in periodically as Angus fucked Carlos in one of the toilet stalls. First, after pulling Carlos’ trousers and briefs down to his knees, Angus pushed Carlos down into a seated position on the toilet; pulled Carlos’ pants and briefs off his legs, laying them out behind Carlos on the toilet tank top; unzipped himself; pulled out a mammoth cock; and force-fed it into Carlos’ mouth. Carlos had had enough sexual experience to give an expert blow job—and to do so quite willingly. Angus hooked Carlos’ legs over the crook of his arms on either side to pull the young man’s feet off the floor so they wouldn’t be seen by men coming into the men’s room. A couple of men did come while Carlos was working Angus’ cock hard with his mouth, but they merely used the urinals and left none the wiser.

Angus was wearing a tuxedo, and he fucked Carlos by using his cummerbund as a sling, cradling Carlos’ buttocks and pulling the young man’s pelvis up to his groin. The younger, smaller man was flexible and was able to press his feet against the stall’s door, reverse his palms against the opposite wall, and rest his neck on the edge of the tank top, his body suspended in air, while Angus crouched between his thighs and pistoned him hard, fast, and deep with a monster cock that would have had the young man yodeling if Angus hadn’t stuffed the young man’s bikini briefs in his mouth.

Only Carlos’ shirt remained on his back, and that had been unbuttoned and flared so that Angus could lean over and chew on the young man’s nipples while he fucked him. Angus remained dressed, with only his fly open and his cummerbund being used as a butt sling, with Angus gripping each end of it and moving it up and down to move Carlos’ pelvis in the rhythm of the fuck.

A few more men came and went in the men’s room, but none seemed to realize that there was a wild fuck going on in one of the stalls.

Afterward Carlos murmured that he wanted to be fucked again—and that he wanted to see Angus naked too.

Angus answered, with a growl, “Then make it happen.”

He told Carlos to remain in the stall and redress, giving him time to be gone, and then, after rolling the condom off his cock, fat as a slug from his cum, and dropping it in the toilet, he was gone.

The bodyguards were beside themselves when Carlos reappeared in the nightclub for his next set with the band. They asked him where he’d been for so long—that they had looked for him everywhere.

Not everywhere, he thought smugly. He told them he’d been in the dressing room area practicing with his sticks—and that it was their problem if they hadn’t found him. Having bodyguards wasn’t his idea of fun.

All during his next set, he dreamed of the big bruiser fucking him rough, and when he was finished, he went to his father’s office to check on Francisco’s entertainment schedule, looking for an appropriate near-term dinner event where he could insert a big-time music promoter on the guest list. His father wasn’t there. Carlos knew he was at the mansion, interrogating Felipe Molina in the basement. Carlos had a slight feeling of regret over Molina. He fucked well and there was a thrill of the risk of fucking an enemy of his father’s. But Molina hadn’t fucked him roughly in a stall in a men’s room as men came and went. Now that gave Carlos a thrill.

* * * *

The dinner at Francisco Arana’s Puerto Barrios mansion was buffet style and included enough people—and enough who were there for disparate reasons—that people were gathered in small groupings of acquaintances that abutted each other. A few other guests, like Angus MacLoid, knew no one else and aimlessly walked around between the groups. Most of these looked lost. Not so with MacLoid, who looked commanding in his tuxedo and stopped conversations whenever he passed by a group.

A couple of times Angus had reconnoitered around the ground floor of the mansion, getting the lay of the land and contemplating the large old colonial building’s secrets. Every time he strayed from the entertainment areas, he was met with barrier-looking security men. As probably the most formidable man present, though, he also arrested attention—and much admiration and speculation from more than a few of the women—and, indeed, also, the men present. So, although he wasn’t with anyone—not having located Carlos Arana yet—it was impossible for Angus to be unobtrusive.

It took some time for his movement around the rooms to intersect with Carlos’, but when he caught sight of the young man, he followed him in a roundabout way until they came close to a hallway leading back into darkness. Angus pulled Carlos into the darkened hall, slammed his body against the wall, and brutally attacked Carlos’ mouth with his. Carlos climbed Angus’ hips with his knees, and Angus dry humped him against the wall.

“Upstairs,” Carlos muttered with a gasp as they came out of the kiss. “Not here. When the gong sounds for the buffet to start, all of the bodyguards will be herding guests. Upstairs, the hallway to the right, the second door on the right.”

In Carlos’ bedroom the young man was naked again, and Angus was shirtless, but still in his trousers. The cummerbund was in use again under Carlos’ belly, pulling his buttocks up into Angus’s belly. Angus crouched a bit, standing in the center of the room, Carlos’ arms, head, and legs dangling toward the floor in front of Angus, flopping up and down, as Angus pulled Carlos’ channel in to his belly and then released, his hands gripping each end of the cummerbund sling, pulling the channel onto the cock, thick and deep, then releasing, and the channel losing four inches of the cock. Pull, with a gasp and little cry from Carlos. Release, with a long sigh from the young man.

Every neuron of Carlos’ being was concentrating on that throbbing, thick cock inside him, working his ass, making him want to cry out. Knowing he couldn’t cry out because of the party going on below them—that and because his briefs again were stuffed in his mouth. The thrill of the risk. The want of the rough sex from the hulking brute. Spilling his seed on the carpet. Feeling Angus tense and grunt, filling the bulb of the condom. Carlos being lowered to the floor at Angus’ feet, spitting out the gag, embracing one of Angus’ legs with an arm, holding Angus’ hand to his cheek, kissing it and begging for Angus to fuck him again. Reaching up and pulling the filled condom off Angus’ cock. Murmuring that there were more condoms in the drawer of his nightstand.

A brief disconnect, but then they were back in position, Carlos standing in the center of the room, but bent over, grasping his ankles with his fists. Angus standing behind him, hands grabbing Carlos’ hips, cock buried in Carlos’ passageway.

A knock on the door and rattling of the door knob—fruitless because the door was locked. “Are you in there, Carlos? You are missed at the buffet.” Spoken in gruff Spanish. One of the bodyguards.

“Yes, I’m here,” Carlos answered in Spanish, trying to keep his voice from being too breathy. Angus was still deep inside him, just standing there swaying back and forth, causing the cock to move inside him. “I spilled something on my trousers. I have to change. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Then to Angus as they disengaged. “Wait in my bathroom. I’ll draw anyone in the hallway downstairs. I want you again. Longer. And I want to enjoy you fully naked.”

“You must come to me, then,” Angus answered. “I leave soon for Belize. Tuesday afternoon. You must ditch the bodyguards. The marina. My boat, say 2:00 p.m.? We’ll go out into the gulf and have all the time we want—without your minders.”

“Yes, yes. Yes. But for now. Hide in the bathroom.”

* * * *

“A toothache.”

“You have a toothache? Then I guess you don’t want to—”

“Yes, of course I want to.” And the look Carlos gave Angus when he climbed on board Angus’ sailboat made that quite clear. Angus was in the skimpy red Speedo again. “I don’t really have a toothache. That’s what I told the bodyguards I had and that I was going to the dentist. Neither one wants even to talk about teeth, so they let me go on my own.”

“Cast off, then, and let’s do this,” Angus said, as he started separating the rope from the pier.

They were still motoring out beyond the headlands and into the Gulf of Honduras when they both got naked and began kissing and fondling each other. Angus stood at the wheel and Carlos was kneeling between him and the wheel base and sucking the big man’s cock.

The boat was still moving, using its motor, when Angus lashed the wheel to sail a steady line straight out from land, pulled Carlos up from below him, laid him down on the small of his back on the roof of the cabin, crouched between his thighs, and began feeding his cock into Carlos’ channel. Carlos moaned, arched his back, and lifted his heels to the hollow of Angus’ shoulders. Angus crouched over him, trapping the young man’s eyes with his and thrust hard and deep, again and again. Carlos began to writhe under him, but Angus continued relentlessly thrusting, fast and hard and deep, until Carlos collapsed under him and whimpered and moaned his surrender.

When Carlos was able to sit up and look out over the stern of the boat, no land was visible. There was another yacht off the starboard side of the sailboat, paralleling their progress, but there was no other life to be seen other than the seagulls reeling and cawing overhead.

“How far out are we? How far are we going?” Carlos asked.

“Into international waters. We’re almost there. Anything goes in international waters. Come below now.”

This time Angus used a regular plow belt—four feet of thick black leather strap, ten inches wide, with handles on the end. As they were kissing, facing each other, at the end of the berth, Angus whipped the belt over Carlos’ head, down to under the young man’s buttocks, and tilted Carlos’ buttocks up to present his already-opened channel entrance to the giant mushroom cap of Angus’ dick. As the cock moved up in Carlos’ channel, Angus moved the belt up so the strap was at Carlos’ waist. He tipped the young man back, and Carlos’ raised one leg up Angus’ chest and wrapped the other one around his waist, as his torso arched back and his shoulder blades rested on the end of the berth.

Angus fucked him hard and deep again. Angus let the belt fall, with Carlos holding position with his legs and pulled a pair handcuffs from under the side of the berth mattress. He cuffed Carlos’ wrists over his head without resistance. All of Carlos’ attention seemed focused on the cock working inside him. He did, though, look up in surprise when Angus stuffed the bikini briefs in Carlos’ mouth.

And he did hear the crunch of wood slamming into wood out on deck, as the other yacht tied up to the side of the sailboat.

Suddenly, the cabin was filled with other men. Men who were roughly manhandling Carlos out from underneath Angus. Men in camouflage uniforms. Very serious-looking men. More Marine types.

Carlos gave a panicked look at Angus, but Angus, standing back to let the interlopers bundle the young Guatemalan up, didn’t seem a bit perturbed.

“You will be going with these men, Carlos,” he said. “They will be holding you but will return you to your father in good shape if he agrees to the exchange.”

Carlos’ panicked look took on a deeper questioning aspect. The question of “What exchange” was clearly conveyed by his expression.

“Felipe Molina, Carlos. We want Molina back. He’s a drug dealer, but he’s also an asset of a force much larger than your father. So, whatever he is, he’s ours. If your father exchanges Molina for you nicely and does no further harm to him, you will go back to him in good shape too. If not, perhaps you’ll go back in pieces. No hard feelings. You were a great fuck. Tell your father what I have said about Molina if you see him again. He’ll let Molina go and consider him an untouchable. If not, we’ll be back—for your father.”

After the other yacht had cast off, carrying a trussed-up Carlos with them, the CIA spy, Silas Collins, no longer needing to be Angus MacLoid, brought a metal pan out onto the deck of his sailboat. He also was carrying the passport and other identification documents for MacLoid and a box of matches. After he’d burned them to a crisp in the pan, he returned to the cabin, pulled on his red Speedo, and rummaged around in the secret compartment under the decking for his next set of documents—as well as the files that would refresh who he was to be when his sailboat arrived in Belize City.

Not Silas Collins. He rarely had the luxury of being Silas Collins in these days of unrest across the world.



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