Malta Sting
by Habu
15 Feb 2022 2598 readers Score 8.7 (45 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Kirk Golding, nearly twenty, small, blond, delicate looking, more beautiful than handsome, sat at a pink baby grand piano on a low platform at one end of a half-basement room five buildings into the narrow street. A ten-seat bar was set into the wall behind him. The bartender behind the bar appeared to be a blowsy blonde woman—but wasn’t. The waiter was tall and thin, with long, slicked-up black hair and a pimply face. He was dressed in a semblance of a tuxedo and was leaning against the bar, with little to do, as the men in the room seemed more interested in making each other than in having their drinks refilled.
There were six tables, two chairs each, strung around a small dance floor at the street side of the room and, on the wall opposite the bar, a staircase going up, its stairs facing the entrance from the street, which was tucked under a stone porch to the entrance of the upper levels.
Two couples of men, one young in jeans and tight T-shirt and one middle aged in a suit, sat at separate tables. A couple, both men, were swaying against each other, cheek to cheek, on the small dance floor more or less in the rhythm of the music, although dancing wasn’t really what was on their minds. A young man, in jeans and pulling his T-shirt over his head, already moving into what he hoped would be a quick trick, was preceding a middle-aged man in a suit up the staircase. The man in the suit, had his hand high up the young man’s thigh.
Both the piano playing and the singing were quite good, as they should be, as Kirk was a graduate of the Julliard school of music. Anyone listening would get the impression that Kirk was trained to play far more demanding music than this.
The song shifted to “Misty,” as two men entered the bar from the street. The men on the stairs were already on their way to the rooms above, where the middle-aged man would shortly be mounting the younger man. All of the other men in the room, except Kirk, who was concentrating on his music, looked up briefly and surreptitiously to view and assess the newly arriving men in terms of arousal or the need for flight. Both men perhaps were in their forties, both with Middle Eastern features. One was obviously more important than the other. His suit was of finest quality, although a bit awkwardly worn as if he was more accustomed to wearing an Arab robe, and his fingers glittered from a collection of gold rings. The other man obviously was subservient to the first.
The two apparently didn’t raise any alarms, as the patrons already in the bar returned to focusing on each other. They were disturbed again, though, when the first man, rather too loudly for the atmosphere in the room said, in English but in a thick accent hinting of British and something else, more like Arabic, “Is that him then?”
“Yes, excellency,” the other man answered in more subdued tones. He was cringing a bit as if it was very important that he get this right.
“Very nice,” the first man said and the other one noticeably relaxed. The waiter came forward to show them to one of the vacant tables by the front window, but the more subservient man waved him away as the first man marched to the table closest to the piano and settled there. The couple at the table in the front corner continued to give passing glances at the newly arrived pair, but everyone else, including the piano player, went back to what they were doing as the waiter took drink orders from the newly arrived patrons.
Kirk segued into “Begin the Beguine,” and the first man, now identified as Samir, as the second man had used that name to break attention away from Kirk to obtain the first man’s drink preference, leaned forward, following Kirk’s hand movements on the piano with his eyes. He clearly was a piano aficionado. He just as clearly was taken with the young, blond pianist and singer.
A young man who had been sitting at the far end of the bar, yet another rent-boy who knew his way up the stairs and who was there to serve the patrons, slithered off his stool and approached Samir by the piano. The other man waved him away, though, and tossing his shoulder in a pout, the rent-boy returned to his station at the far end of the bar.
The piano player reached some sort of refreshment break, because, although he didn’t leave the piano, the waiter produced a drink for him without him asking, and he took his hands off the keys to take a sip. He also reached for a cigarette case and lighter that were laying beside a tip jar on the ledge above the keyboard—perhaps to make clear that there was a tip jar there. As he fiddled with the cigarette case, extracting and lighting up a smoke, his fingers caressed the tip jar for a moment, a clear signal that Samir, at least, picked up on. If the patron was there to appreciate the music, he needed to show his appreciation. He rose, took some money out of his wallet, moved to the piano, and dropped the money in the tip jar.
“Thank you,” Kirk said in English.
“Ah, you’re American,” Samir said.
“No, Canadian,” Kirk said, flashing a smile.
“You play and sing very well. Have you trained?”
“Yes, the Ottawa Conservatory of Music,” Kirk said. “I thought I could put a good use to the training as I traveled Europe on my gap year.”
“Gap year? What is a gap year?”
“It’s a year off from college one takes to broaden their experience in travel.”
“You have wanted to broaden your experience,” Samir said, touching Kirk’s forearm lightly with his fingers.
“Yes,” Kirk said, looking down at the fingers brushing his arm but making no move away from them. “My musical experience.”
“There are other experiences worthy of broadening the man said.”
“I am aware of that,” Kirk answered. This was the sort of bar where this was foreplay. And Kirk wouldn’t be employed to play here if he wasn’t on offer for a price.
“You’re traveling Europe and the Mediterranean alone during this gap year?”
“Yes, all alone.”
“Not with a girlfriend?”
Kirk laughed. “There’s no girlfriend.”
“A boyfriend then, perhaps?”
“Is there a song you’d like me to play for you?” Kirk said rather than answering the question. “You seemed to like the type of song I was playing.”
“I like everything about you,” Samir said. “What do you think of me?”
Kirk paused to give the man a good look. He knew what this was, what was being expected from him. Serving the patrons came with having a job in a bar like this. The man, in fact, was handsome, although he had a dangerous look about him, and he certainly was fit for his age. He wasn’t European. Maybe from somewhere in the Middle East? There was an air of command and cruelty about him. “You look just fine. You’re a handsome man,” Kirk said. He was still fiddling with his cigarette case.
“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Samir said, putting his hand on Kirk’s shoulder. Kirk left it there. “It’s not good for your singing, I don’t think. It would be a pity for you to lose your talent.”
“Perhaps I have other talents I can fall back on.”
“I can clearly see that. You’re a beautiful young man. So blond—and young.”
“Unfortunately, I have several bad habits,” Kirk said. “I guess I’m just a bad boy.” The signaling was obvious, and Samir smiled.
“You asked if I would like you to play a song for me. Do you know ‘Embraceable You’?”
“Certainly,” Kirk answered. “You were watching my hands on the piano as I played. I can scoot over and you can sit on the bench beside me. You’ll get a closer look.”
“That will be very nice,” Samir said. He sat close to Kirk on the piano bench, and as Kirk returned the cigarette case to the piano ledge and began playing and singing softly, the older man’s arm went around the singer’s back and his hand palmed the younger man’s hip. Kirk trembled a bit but left the hand there.
“Beautifully done,” Samir murmured when Kirk finished. “You have such fine hands. I appreciate a young man with fine hands like yours—and the blond hair. Do you ever let it down?” Kirk’s hair was held in back in a clip that pulled it up in a loose bun at the back.
“Yes, sometimes . . . when I’m going to bed,” the young man answered.
“When you go to bed alone?”
“Not always.”
“Do you mind if I let it down now? . . . Not that we’re going to bed now.”
“We’re not?” Kirk asked, looking directly at the man and smiling. Samir smiled back, but before he could say anything, Kirk said, “Of course you can let it down if you like. Is there another song you’d like for me to play?”
“Do you know the theme song from the movie Doctor Zhivago?—the one played during that long train journey in the snow, I think. I love the old, atmospheric songs.”
“Yes, that would certainly be more dramatic that what I’ve been playing. But I do know the song and will play it. Do you want it played softly or hard? It can be quite made to sound quite dramatic—very Russian.”
Kirk’s hair had come down and Samir was stroking it. He put his mouth up to the young man’s ear and said, “Such silky hair. Can you take it hard? If so, that’s what I prefer.”
“Yes, I can,” the young man answered, both of them knew they weren’t talking about music now.
Samir looked up at the staircase. “There are rooms up those stairs?”
“Yes,” Kirk said.
“If I wanted to make arrangements . . . ?”
“You’d speak and deal with the bartender.”
“All in good time. Please play the dramatic version of the song.” He put his lips close to Kirk’s ear and said, “Play music to fuck by.” Kirk started playing but gave a startled grunt and had to start over again because Samir nipped at his earlobe before moving his head back.
“You said you were a bad boy. For what you do or what you let be done?”
“I like a bit of manhandling.”
“Have you done it with a bit of pain?”
“Yes,” Kirk answered.
“That can enhance the pleasure and the satisfaction.”
“Yes,” Kirk responded. As he continued playing, the older man pulled a wallet out, extracted a wad of cash—far too much for it to be misunderstood that it was in appreciation for the music—and dropped it into the tip jar.
“I tried to say that arrangements are made with the bartender,” Kirk said. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood.”
“I believe the one who has to do the work deserves much of the reward, especially if the work is taxing, which it will be. The bartender deserves attention as well. I am well aware of how arrangements are made here.”
Kirk noticeably trembled at this remark. The man took Kirk’s near hand off the keyboard, grunting his surprise and appreciation that the young man could maintain the melody with one hand, and placed it on his basket to let the young man know Samir was hard and hung. He then released Kirk’s hand, which went back to the keyboard, striking a chord that wasn’t connected with anything from the Doctor Zhivago movie.
“To be clear, you will mount those stairs over there with me, take me to one of the rooms above us, spread your legs for me, and give me whatever I want.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Kirk said.
“Do you know what fisting is? I heard that you perhaps—”
“Yes.”
“And you are not saying ‘no’?”
“I am not saying no.”
Almost simultaneously, the couple at the front corner table abruptly stood, pushed their table over, and the older of them pulled out a whistle and blew it.
The blowsy blonde bartender propelled himself from behind the bar and grabbed Samir’s arm. “Quick, through that door there. There’s a passage to get beyond here.” The man who had come in with Samir joined them, as the other patrons in the room frantically milled about, not knowing where to go. Kirk took the money out of the tip jar, pocketed it and his cigarette case and lighter, and remained seated, waiting for whatever was to happen. Within short order, men in uniform were pouring into the bar.
Twenty minutes later Samir al-Tariq and the pimp who had brought him to the bar were sitting in the back of a chauffeured black Mercedes across from the alley opening and watching the employees and patrons of the gay piano bar, including Kirk Golding, being hauled out of the alley, in handcuffs, and placed in the back of paddy wagons.
“Find out where they take that delicious young man and how much the bail will be,” Samir said to the pimp before directing the chauffeur to drive off.
* * * *
“It’s not here. I had a lot of money with me when I was brought in here. It’s not here. Where is it?” Kirk was standing at the discharge window at the Valette jail. He was holding his cigarette case and lighter in his hand, but he obviously wasn’t getting any of the money back he’d slipped in his pocket from his tip jar at the gay piano bar as the raid was coming down.
“I don’t know anything about any money . . . sir,” the policeman on the other side of the window said. To him, Kirk was just another young rent-boy coming in from a foreign country to mislead the men of Malta who otherwise wouldn’t be misled, as if they wouldn’t find what they wanted from local boys if they couldn’t get it from foreigners. “And if there was money, I’m sure it would have been confiscated.”
“Confiscated? Why? Those were my tips for playing the piano. Not for anything else.”
“Money from prostitution is contraband here in Malta. That was a lot of money for piano playing tips . . . sir.”
“So, you do know there was money. I want to see—”
“Let’s just leave. There’s more money from where that came from. Let’s not make a scene over it.” The voice came from the waiting room beyond. Kirk recognized the voice. He turned, and, sure enough, the handsome Arab from the bar was standing there in the waiting room door.
“You? You’re the one who covered my bail?” Kirk asked, turning to Samir al-Tariq.
“Yes, Samir as-Balik at your service. And not just your bail. This is the Mediterranean. For a bit more, there’s no charge at all. You never were here.” The man hadn’t given Kirk is real name. Not here, not in the center of police authority on the island.
“Why? Why would you do that for me?” Kirk asked as he drew closer to the man, who put a possessive hand on his forearm. He looked down at the hand and then up into Samir’s face. “So, that’s how it is?” he said.
“That’s how it is. You owe me. That money you say the police have taken was my money. I paid for you and didn’t receive what I was paying for. You are mine until I’ve received my money’s worth, which now includes the money paid to get you free from jail and prosecution. You obviously were willing—and able—to give me what I wanted at the bar before the raid. I would like to receive satisfaction before they bring you in again. Surely we don’t have to dance around all of this again.”
Kirk was about to retort, but then Samir changed the subject. “But look at you. Have you been beaten overnight?” He clearly was upset that Kirk’s face—and quite probably other areas of him—had been bloodied.
“Yes.”
“By the police?”
“Yes. But they put me in a common pen. I was mishandled there too.”
“And molested?”
“Yes. What did you think?”
“Under the circumstances I would have to think whether or not you enjoyed it.” Kirk didn’t respond to that. When he didn’t, Samir said, “Come on, then. The car is outside.”
“I don’t think I have anywhere to go,” Kirk said. “I had a room at the bar, but I don’t think they’ll let me back there. I’m sure the police have shut it down.”
“You’ll come with me, of course. We have unfinished business. I have a piano at my villa.”
“Of course, we do—and you do,” Kirk said, as the Arab guided him out of the jail building and helped him into the back of the chauffeured black Mercedes.
When he realized that the car was taking them out of the capital and north along the coast, Kirk turned to the Arab. Samir hadn’t touched him. Not even when they entered the car.
“Do you want me to do something now, here in the car?” he asked.
“What?” Samir asked, his voice hard, exhibiting a bit of distaste.
“I’ve been fucked in the backseat of a car before—and given blow jobs there. You say I owe you. Do you want me to start showing my gratitude for you bailing me out now?” Kirk released the band at the back of his head and let his blond curls descend to his shoulders. “You said you liked to have my hair down.”
“Certainly not. Not that we won’t have our time. I have plans for you. And put your hair back up, please. You’ve been beaten—and assaulted. I was drawn by your perfection, your purity. You’ve been defiled. And you are a mess—dirty and you smell. You smell of other men.”
“So, you don’t want me at all?”
“I didn’t say that. Thirty days. You must heal and become pure again. You will stay with me at my villa. We will have our time. I will use you, but not until you are pure again. And then I will use you hard.”
“And I won’t be pure then—after you’ve used me hard?”
“After that, it won’t matter.”
Kirk turned his head away, moving to pin his hair up again, and looking at the seaside cliffs of the rough Malta coastline sliding by. Samir al-Tariq, calling himself Samir as-Balik now, most likely thought Kirk turned so he, Samir, couldn’t see the fear in the young man’s face, but Kirk did it because he couldn’t help from giving a small smile. The most difficult part of this had been surmounted. The approach had been elaborate, but for this mark, that had been necessary. He had been successfully elusive for over a decade. He was clever as a fox and well protected. That didn’t mean there weren’t flaws in his makeup—and Kirk’s employers had found one: Kirk.
* * * *
Kirk was taken to a walled compound on the coast, with stairs down the cliff to a sandy beach of a cove below. The compound was guarded, and, although Kirk was told he could go down to the beach, barriers were pointed out to him that not only provided physical separation, but, he was told, some of the area was mined as well. The villa itself was luxurious and did indeed have a grand piano that Kirk was urged to play for Samir nearly every afternoon and evening as well as a terrace overlooking the sea and a swimming pool. But beyond that, the compound was a military fortification.
Kirk wasn’t surprised.
For thirty days he was permitted to heal and to return his body to the perfection of a young, innocent-looking blond almost boy. He roamed within the confines defined to him, doing as he pleased, wearing what he wished, or nothing at all, to develop his tan, although Samir urged him not to become too brown.
“I want a golden blond. And I want your freshness and innocence.”
Samir acted as if Kirk could regain them—that he could become a virgin for Samir to glory in and defile, as he pleased—or at least close enough that Samir could think of him as a young virgin when he finally covered him. He didn’t try to talk the Arab out of the notion that Kirk would peel back time in experience and age.
As soon as they returned to the villa, Samir reverted to his Arab comfort. He eschewed Western clothes and took to wearing the traditional pristine white thawb, with the Arab headdress, when he was receiving guests. Otherwise, Samir spent considerable time at the pool, in a Speedo or less. He had no embarrassment about Kirk seeing him naked, and he had no reason to be reticent about that. The man probably was past forty, but he was muscular and very fit and sexy looking. Pock marks down his side and on one of his thighs that could be from healed bullet wounds lent an air of mystery to him. And he was hung. Having sex with him wasn’t any part of Kirk’s worry about being a virtual prisoner here, becoming some form of “pure” to ultimately provide pleasure to the man, who obviously had a fetish for small, young-looking, handsome blond men.
Kirk was constantly playing music on the piano and singing for Samir, whose tastes ran to romantic American songs of the fifties and sixties, and Samir loved that. He wasn’t as pleased that Kirk continued to smoke and to carry his cigarette case and lighter around with him—but the man indulged the pianist, supplying him with cigarettes, as needed. Kirk began to feel like the Turkey being fattened for the holiday feast.
There were frequent occasions during that thirty days that Samir received guests. Sometimes they came in convoys by car. More often than not, though, they arrived off the coast in yachts and were motored in to meet with Samir or he motored out to meet with them on their ships. Whenever guests were there, Kirk was nearby, standing at the railing overlooking the cove, smoking, and watching the ships that had come in, or somewhere near where the men were meeting, Kirk fiddling with his cigarette case. Fiddling with his cigarette case and lighter appeared to be more a nervous habit with him than actually smoking the cigarettes coming out of the case.
There were moments when Kirk wondered why he was permitted such close access when Samir was entertaining visitors. And, when he could tell that Samir was in heat and hardly able to keep his hands off Kirk in those thirty days, Kirk could wonder at the language the man used in what he would do with Kirk when Kirk was “purified.” He made no effort, in saying how he would “use” the young man, not to reveal that he would be a cruel and heavily taxing lover. And it was quite clear that Kirk was being held in reserve for Samir. More than one guard was reprimanded and quite likely severely punished for being caught ogling Kirk. Kirk didn’t discourage this, though. He was desperate to find a friend in Samir’s service. But he never did.
Kirk saw young men around the compound from time to time, and when he sensed that Samir was in high heat and was having trouble keeping his hands off Kirk, he would see Samir lying with one of these young men. The two would couple, entwined somewhere in the house or at the pool, making out, Samir dominating, to the point of penetrative sex. Samir did penetrate them with his hand, not quite fisting them, put pushing four digits in to the knuckles, making the young men pant and moan deeply as he moved the hand in and out. But they would disappear before moving into the act of shaft penetration itself and Kirk would never see that particular young man again. None of them were blonds, though. They all appeared to be of Arabic ethnicity. Despite lying with such young men, Samir couldn’t stop talking about his desire for young, blond men.
Kirk asked Samir once if this fetish the Arab seemed to have meant he had fucked young blonds before, and, if so, what had happened to them. He never got a straight answer to that, though. He didn’t pursue the question because he had a very good notion where the Arab was taking this and didn’t want to go there. He knew that if it was revealed he eventually would be eliminated, his movements would be severely restricted at that point. He strongly suspected that the young Arab men Samir lay with disappeared somewhere in the bowls of the compound when Samir had been driven to high heat and that they never came up out of that darkness again.
On the thirty-first day, Samir laid on an elaborate dinner with Kirk after Kirk had played the piano and sung for the man. The two of them sat close together on pillows facing a low table. For the first time in a month, Samir was touching Kirk and embracing him and kissing him. He reached up and released Kirk’s hair, letting it descend to his shoulders.
This was it, Kirk knew, which Samir confirmed when he whispered, “I have not forgotten that you said you let your hair down only when you were going to bed—or were being bedded.”
By the end of the meal, Kirk was lying across the pillows on his back and Samir was on top of him. Samir had worn his thawb to the dinner, but he had unbuttoned it down the front and flared it open to reveal he was naked underneath and in erection. He lay on top of Kirk and kissed and fondled him. They stroked each other’s cocks and Samir stripped Kirk of the satin robe he’d been told to wear for the evening. Kirk had kept track of the days. He knew what could happen on this day—and his body was in pristine condition for it.
Embracing Kirk closely, Samir’s hand glided down the young man’s belly and flanks. Kirk gasped as two fingers entered him and spread his hole. Slowly the hand invaded him, four fingers moving in to the depth of the knuckles. Kirk panted and looked deeply into Samir’s eyes as the hand moved: in and out, in and out. Kirk whimpered but he didn’t resist. His hips fell into the rhythm of the hand, rocking on it.
“Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me here, now,” Kirk whimpered.
“Use your hands, your fine hands,” Samir murmured, and Kirk reached down, took the Arab’s erection in both hands, and slowly stroked him off. As Kirk worked the man’s cock, Samir pulled his hand away and rose over him, the cockhead going into position for penetration. They held there, Samir stroking the young man’s shoulder-length blond hair, whispering endearments into his ear, and poised to enter him. For several minutes Kirk thought that this was going to be a sensual sex session. But he was wrong.
Abruptly, Samir sat up and away from the young man. “Go to your room. Clean your body—and clean out your body. Anoint yourself with the oils you’ll find there. Await my presence.”
The time had come. Kirk went to his room and prepared. When Samir entered the room, still wearing his thawb, but with it open and parted, showing his muscular body and his massive erection, two of his attendants—all of his guards were silent Arab thugs—came into the room with him. Kirk was lying on the bed, naked, awaiting what he thought was the man who would make love to him, prepared to respond as if he were a virgin, gauging Samir’s action to know if he should be a willing or unwilling virgin.
He struggled with the thugs as they forced his arms over his head and bound his wrists to restraints in the center of the headboard. Restraints came up from the side of the bed that bound his knees and feet in place, his legs bent and spread, and his feet flat on the mattress. There hadn’t been restraints there when he’d left his room earlier that day. They were provided especially for this occasion. He could not close his legs if he tried. A wedge went under the small of his back, raising and tilting his pelvis up.
The thugs left the room and Samir threw off his robe, mounted the bed, and, straddling Kirk’s chest, struck him with his open palm again and again cross the young man’s face, until Kirk’s nose bled and he cried in pain for mercy. Raised over the young man then on his knees, between Kirk’s spread thighs, Samir gave him a wicked smile as he pulled a latex glove onto his right hand, making Kirk watch him grease it up.
Kirk cried out in pain and violation as Samir worked his gloved and greased fist into the young man’s channel, up to the wrist, past where he’d stopped at the knuckles before, and fist fucked him. Kirk cried out to the ceiling but there was no one to save him—no one to care about whatever Samir decided to do to him. As he fucked the young man with his right first, he stroked himself off with his left. When he released his seed on Kirk’s belly, the young man thought it was over for now. But he was wrong.
Having totally subdued him, Samir released Kirk from his bounds, gathered him up in his arms, and took him to Samir’s own bedroom. By the time he reached that, he was hard again. He laid Kirk on the bed, grabbed the young man’s ankles and wishboned his legs, thrust his erection up inside Kirk’s now-gaping hole, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him. Samir was a virile and vigorous man of action. He was also much too strong for Kirk to bother struggling against. He fucked Kirk almost nonstop for two days before sending him back to his room and promising more “fun” to come.
Fun for Samir, although much of the fucking did it for Kirk as well. Still, he didn’t know how much of this he could take before he was used up completely. It was quite evident now that that was Samir’s intent—to fuck Kirk to death and to do so inventively.
There wasn’t much question anymore what had happened to the earlier young, blond men in Samir’s life.
But it hadn’t been one session to the finish, as Kirk suspected had been the case with the young Arab men he’d seen with Samir. At least for today, Kirk was still alive. He was still special to Samir.
* * * *
Kirk was taken deeper into the degradation of being used over the next couple of days, but the experience didn’t make it all the way to where he feared. There were times, though when the young man wished that the cruel and brutal Arab would just have done with him. Kirk had played his role already.
When the American SEAL commandoes and CIA agents under the direction of Sam Winterberry, the chief of the CIA Candy Store unit operations, specializing in the use of sex in Agency operations, hit the compound from the air with armed drones to soften the place up—knowing right where to apply pressure—before the commandoes came in, Kirk was found in the basement of the villa, naked, back welted from having been whipped, and hanging from a hook in the ceiling. But he was alive and moaning. The semen running down his inner thighs indicated he’d been well fucked recently.
If Samir al-Tariq, a major liaison operative between the various terrorist groups in the Middle East, had survived the assault on the compound, he might have recognized Sam Winterberry as the patron of the Valetta piano bar who, although with a lieutenant, had been sitting at a table in the front corner, had jumped up and turned it over, and had whistled for his men, in police uniforms, to raid the bar when Al-Tariq had brought out his payment for a prostitute. The actual Valetta police, not approving of Maltese soil being used for terrorist organization consultations, cooperated to the point of staging the Valetta jail discharge scene. The pimp who had searched for a young blond willing to take cock for Al-Tariq had done so in service to the operation to monitor and take Al-Tariq down.
Kirk had been brought in specially because he closely fit the bill of Al-Tariq’s interests—both in sexual fetish and in musical interests. For thirty days, the young man had recorded and transmitted Al-Tariq’s business dealings via his nifty cigarette case camera and transmission device.
Kirk Golding—that, of course, not being his real name, not that his real name will be revealed here—was transported to the military hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany, and was not debriefed until he recovered. His role in all of this had been over before he’d been rescued. Though Al-Tariq chose not to be taken alive in Malta, Kirk had transmitted more than enough data for the United States and its allies to start rolling up and pinching off the support connections between the various terrorist movements in and beyond the Mideast region.
Sam Winterberry’s debriefing of Kirk was conducted in Berchtesgaden, a Bavarian ski resort town in southern Germany, nestled up against the Alps. Winterberry maintained a taut and strict Candy Store unit, holding sway over his operatives with the same sexual dominance they were made to take from the “bad guys” in pursuit of the U.S. national interests. He wanted it to be quite clear who was in charge and how control was maintained.
Visiting Kirk in his hotel room, Winterberry started the debriefing by saying, “I hope you can appreciate now that beating before Al-Tariq bailed you out of the Valetta jail both gave you opportunity to gather information and saved your life—it put off the Arab terrorist’s plans for fucking you to death. Our intelligence was correct that he was a cleanliness fanatic—and that, in satisfying his fetish for young, blond men, his prey disappeared forever.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Kirk answered, “and I rather enjoyed that part of the sex.” He knew it wasn’t in his self-interest to further address the night of the raid on the piano bar, during which Kirk wasn’t put in a jail cell but was turned over to Sam Winterberry for the Candy Store unit chief to combine taking his rough sex pleasure with Kirk with preparing him to go with Al-Tariq but not to be used by the Arab immediately.
“Did you now?” Winterberry said. “I was told that what Al-Tariq liked the best—the fisting—was something that you—”
“Yes,” Kirk said with a smile.
“One doesn’t often . . . I must admit that I too—and bondage.”
“Yes,” Kirk said. “Yes, to both.”
“You are a rare young man.”
“I certainly hope to be.”
Then the spy master, a tall, muscular, extremely fit, virile, and vigorous man in his early fifties, proceeded to tie the young operative’s wrists to the restraints to the center of the headboard of his bed, slapped the young spy enough for Kirk to believe this was serious business, bent and spread the young man’s legs, placed his feet flat on the mattress, elevated his pelvis with pillows, and, gloving and greasing his right hand, worked the hand into Kirk’s channel up to the wrist. Panting and moaning deeply, Kirk dug his heels into the mattress and elevated to the hand, rocking on it, as the hand moved in and out, in and out. Although not done as cruelly as Al-Tariq had, Winterberry fist fucked the young man at great length before bringing his long, thick cock into the action.
Kirk took it, because this was what he was hired to do, and he’d been trained to be able to take it. And he was trained not to question how much crueler the terrorists were than his own government was. But Kirk also took it because submitting to fisting was the height of arousal for him.