Busman's Holiday

I was cruising down the South King’s Highway, through Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, from the airport to my hotel, the Royal Garden Resort Oceanfront, on the beach in Garden City near the Indian Wells Golf Club and maybe driving a bit faster than the speed limit. But I’d been given a passion red Nissan 370Z convertible sports car at the rental, and I rarely got to drive in New York City. There wasn’t much traffic on the road anyway.

I was told that the hotel wasn’t the best, but it provided me with a one-bedroom condo with ocean beach frontage and I wouldn’t be spending much time there anyway. I wasn’t going to be all that busy with the job, but this was the beach. I’d rarely been to an ocean beach. I was from Colorado and even after ending up in New York City as a male model, I’d found most of my out-of-town work to be at snow ski resorts, as I had been an Olympic Team skier. That’s where my face and build mostly fit in my line of work. But when a chance had come up for a busman’s holiday to a southern beach—a little bit of work and time for fun—I’d grabbed the opportunity.

I had the radio on pretty loud, as did most of the other fine-looking cars gliding down the road, some of them keeping pace with me for the companionship and some with drivers as good-looking as I was, even some who were flirting with me. Having both women and men pay attention to me wasn’t something that was strange for me. I don’t know how long the siren had been going behind me before I noticed it. It wasn’t a cop car; it was a cop motorcycle. I glided over into a parking area in front of a store with soaped-over windows and the motorcycle pulled in too. A burly cop, all tricked out in cop gear, climbed off the cycle and slowly walked up to the side of the car. The top was down, so there was no need to open up for him.

What I could see of him behind the reflective-lens sunglasses was both all hunky Marine style and business. He was muscular on top, tapering down to a narrower waist that was supporting a tool belt with a complete collection of cop gear hanging off it, teasing me to try the tired “Is that I big gun I see you packing?” joke. His tight navy-blue trousers descended down from a full basket to shiny black boots.

As he approached the car, I said, “Sorry, officer. Officer Brand, is it?” I was looking at the name tag on his heavily muscular chest. “Was I driving too fast? I’ve just come from the airport and haven’t seen a speed sign yet. I thought I was going with the pace of the traffic.”

“So, this isn’t your car?” he asked.

“It’s a rental. I’ve just flown in from New York.”

“City? License and registration, please.”

“Yes, New York City.” I handed him the documents. I wasn’t afraid the license wouldn’t pass, even though it was fake. My employers used only the best forgers and I’d been Ken Taylor for some time when I was on the job—quite successfully. Even those who somehow had dredged up how closely I looked like the former Olympic skier Kevin Tyler were willing to be convinced I wasn’t him.

“It says here you’re twenty-two.”

“That’s right, officer.”

“You don’t look that old. That’s one reason I stopped you. You didn’t look old enough to own a sweet ride like this.”

“I’m old enough, but not rich enough,” I said, giving him a model’s smile. “It’s a rental. My agency rented it for me. They take good care of their boys.” Yes, I was flirting and beginning to open up to him, in case he was interested. He’d taken his sunglasses off to read my license and he was one handsome dude—a rough rider type. Rugged features. The smile he’d given back to me indicated he might be a player. I enjoyed being ridden by his type. He put a gloved hand on my shoulder, which advanced this possibility. Rather than shirking away, I looked up at him and batted my long eyelashes.

“Your agency? What sort of agency would that be?” he asked.

Here we go, I thought. It was fish or cut bait time. “I’m a male model. I work for an escort agency in New York.”

“An escort agency?” he said.

“Yes. Escorting men,” I answered.

He smiled again and the hand on my shoulder slid down the front of my shirt. I wasn’t wearing an undershirt and the silky material of my white shirt lay on my chest in a way that my puffy nipples tented the shirt and showed that I had silver bars pierced there. His gloved fingers easily found my left nipple and rested there, flicking the silver bar through my shirt material. That I had the piercing and didn’t pull away from him told him everything he needed to know about me, even if I hadn’t openly said it.

We were declaring our interest in each other right out here on the side of the street with cars gliding by and everything.

“There were a couple of other reasons I stopped you—other than that you were going seven miles over the speed limit.”

“What other reasons, and is seven miles really bad, officer? I thought I was going with the flow.”

“Not too bad, but I could ticket you for it. And, yes, I can be pretty bad. One of the reasons is that this is a bad-ass car. I haven’t seen the inside of one of these 370Z babies before.”

“Feel free to take a look, officer. Feel free to do whatever you want.” I flashed him “the” smile.

He leaned into the car and his hand slid down to my crotch. I spread my legs and pushed my basket up into his gloved hand.

“Anything you want, officer,” I said.

He took his time looking over the dash board. But he eventually straightened up and stood beside the car. He didn’t move on to doing anything else, though.

“What was the other reason you stopped me, Officer?” I asked, my voice breathy.

“I’d been following you for a while before I stopped you. There are some known homos cruising the King’s Highway this afternoon. You seemed to be sharing looks with them and I haven’t seen you out on the street before. So, I was wondering—”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes to what?” he asked, something between a smile and a smirk on his face.

“Yes to anything you want,” I answered. “I’ve said that already. I’m good to go with whatever you want.”

“You don’t want to negotiate over ticket or no ticket?”

“No. If you want anything you can have it. No conditions.”

“You got a hotel?”

“Yes, the Royal Garden Resort in Garden City. On the beach. That’s where I was headed now.”

“I’ll follow you and meet you there. No ticket this time.”

“Just one question, officer?”

“Yes?”

“Do you always keep your gloves on?”

“When requested.”

“Neat.”

He fucked me on the bed in my one-bedroom condo—or, I guess you could say I rode him on the bed and then he fucked me on the floor and on the bed. He kept his gloves on but little else. His name was Rob and he had, indeed, been in the Marines and now, which was obvious, worked out at a gym much of his free time. He didn’t have a steady boyfriend. He usually picked guys up at the gym, took them somewhere, and fucked them. He didn’t often do the same guy twice. It all sounded casual and nonthreatening, in terms of relationship if not in how his guys got treated physically. I found it exciting and arousing. He was quite the big bruiser.

We didn’t get beyond that in introductions before we got hot and heavy, he explored every inch of me with his gloved hands and got his cock sucked, I got my ass eaten out, I rode him on the bed in a wild cowboy, and then he fucked me silly. As a male whore, it took a special cock for me to really feel it. He had a special cock. I really felt it.

Everything else was special too. In addition to the gloves, he kept his equipment belt, including his holster, tied to his naked, meaty thigh, and his black boots on, as I straddled his pelvis, impaled myself on his monster cock, and rode him like we were in a rodeo.

Rob was an in-control guy, though. He put up with that for a while, but then, he took over, eventually got mounted on my hips, with me on my knees and elbows, and rode me down to collapsing on the bed, leaving me completely used up, after saying he needed to get back on his cycle and on the street before his lieutenant missed him—leaving me flat on my belly, my head and an arm dangling over the side of the bed, my eyes crossed and looking down at a spent condom on the floor, thick as a slug with cum, and my mouth blowing bubbles.

I didn’t usually get a young, virile, hung power top like Rob. When he’d taken over he’d treated me like the whore I was. I didn’t want to give up control, so I spun away from him, rolled off the bed, and started for the bathroom. But he lunged out, grabbing me and taking both of us onto the floor at the foot of the bed. I struggled, but he was too heavy and powerful for me, putting an arm under my belly and holding me there on all fours as he mounted me on top, penetrated me, and fucked me into moaning submission.

When I’d gone docile for him, he moved me onto the bed, pinning me to the bed with the weight of his body, putting me into a painful arm lock, an arm shoved high up my back, with one hand and burying the fingers of his other hand into the curly blond-highlighted hair on the back of my head and arching me cruelly up into his chest. He stood on the floor at the end of the bed, using the strength of his powerful legs to thrust brutally in long, hard, rapid strikes into the center of me, lifting my body off the bed, making me cry out and jerk and writhe with each powerful, exhausting thrust. He was a cop and he was serving my arrest warrant—softening me up and subduing me so I wouldn’t give him any trouble going into the cell. It wasn’t often that I felt totally fucked after a John was finished with me. Rob, the bodybuilder cop, totally fucked me.

“That’s how you do whore,” he growled after he was done. I was so well done I didn’t disagree.

Rob was what was making this a busman’s holiday—a busman going on a bus tour during his holiday from work. Rob wasn’t what I was here for. I’d been given an assignment with a lot of down time, where I could be doing something new and different with my time. Thus far I was doing the same thing I did on my job—just not for pay.

It was just as well he left. I would have liked him to stay all night and put me into the hospital, but I had a job to do. I was here to party for pay, and that started this evening. I needed some recovery time after being ridden by the motorcycle cop.

* * * *

The house I was going to at 4:00 that afternoon and then again later in the evening wasn’t far from my hotel. It was one of those soaring wooden beach mansions wedged into a premium, postage-sized lot directly on Surfside Beach. The house fronted on North Ocean Boulevard and was set back from the road far enough for ten slanted parking places, five per side, to lead into a short green space dominated by a two-sided staircase up to the second level. The house, with forty feet of lot width, consisted of four stories above a garage on each side with a deep, open undercroft space under the back of the house opening onto the stone terrace and oval swimming pool. The first story was expendable in case a hurricane sent water up to North Ocean Boulevard, which had happened on occasion. Over four thousand square feet of house, with the second, entry level being all common living space, the two stories above that had three bedrooms, each, two smaller bedrooms on the front and a larger one overlooking the ocean, each with bath. The top story, with the views and the most inviting for parties, was were the entertaining was done.

I didn’t know if Salvatore Siglioni owned the house or had rented it for this business weekend. I had no interest in knowing. Nor did I know what Siglioni’s business interests were—what he hoped to accomplish this weekend in that vein. I was told I didn’t want to or need to know—just that there would be armed bodyguards and to consider them as statutes. They probably wouldn’t vacate the room while Siglioni or anyone else he designated was fucking me. I had only been rented for the weekend, but the agency made clear that, for what Siglioni paid, I should consider myself owned for the weekend—by one and all.

I was told that Siglioni was gay and a top and that several of his associates were as well and that there would be gay tops among tonight’s investor’s party and tomorrow’s business meeting at the Indian Wells Golf Course during a tournament. Siglioni would identify who I was to go with and be screwed by. I was owned for the weekend. He wanted to sample the goods himself, though, which was why I was driving into the ten-space forecourt of the beach house on Surfside Beach. A black Cadillac limo was sitting, nose out, in the garage to the right and a black Escalade was filling the other garage. A navy-blue Mustang convertible, top down, was parked in the nearest slanted space to the house on the right. I parked the Nissan 370Z on the left, closed the top, and started to climb the stairs to the second floor. I didn’t get that far, though. A young guy—but a few years older than I was—dark, well-built, sure of himself, came around the left side of the building, He’d obviously recently come from the pool as he was in a Speedo and drops of water on his cut torso picked up the reflection from the sun. With a body like his, he had every apparent reason to be full of confidence. He called out to me, “You the guy from the New York Agency?”

A more muscular, older, mean-looking thug in a black suit, even in the heat of the Myrtle Beach afternoon, and with a gun holster under his left armpit, was tagging along behind the younger, sultry guy.

“That’s me. Ken Taylor from the New York agency. Are you Salvatore Siglioni?”

The young man laughed. “Not a chance. I’m his nephew, Guido. He’s around this way, in back. Follow me.”

I followed Guido and the goon followed me. What must be Salvatore Siglioni was on a massage table, face down, receiving a massage from a personal trainer-looking black guy in the lanai under the back half of the house, overlooking the pool terrace and the ocean beyond. Siglioni was a big guy, with an all-over tan, but he was olive skinned anyway. He was hirsute, with black curly hair. He was a muscular, powerfully built man with a beer belly and, from my first view of him, a bulbous buttocks, covered in a down of black hair, as were his shoulder blades. There were a couple of scars on his back and on his right thigh. They looked like old bullet wounds. He was billiard-ball bald, but he had bushy black, laced with gray, eyebrows and piercing black eyes. He gave the impression of being able to assess a man immediately to determine whether to do business with him or shoot him—and then to follow up without hesitation or remorse.

Another black-suited, unsmiling goon, cradling a machine gun, stood off to the side by the stairs up into the house.

Mercifully, I got that Siglioni’s assessment of me was that he was going to do business with me—and that that would include eating me up and fucking the shit out of me.

“So, you’re from New York?” he said, his voice gruff and with a foreign accent I couldn’t locate. But then I was terrible with accents and I didn’t try them myself, letting my Oxford BBC English origins come forth. Men seemed to like that accent.

“Yes sir,” I answered.

“Well, strip down and walk around a bit. I want to see what I’m buying.” I did so, and walked a red carpet that led from the stairs up into the house out to the pool terrace like it was a fashion runway.

“You good at fucking? You take a cock well?” he asked. All the time he asked, the masseur was kneading his back muscles.

“I’m from a full-service agency,” I said.

“Go take a swim in the pool with Guido here. Guido, fuck him on the side of the pool where I can see it.”

“With pleasure,” Guido said, giving a big smile and stripping off his Speedo.

We swam a few laps in the pool before he pulled me into his chest in the center of the pool, and took my lips with his and reached down on frotted our cocks together. I climbed his hips as a hand went around my waist and fingers found and entered my hole. He sat on the side of the pool, where Siglioni could watch me suck Guido’s cock into an erection with standing in the pool and bent over him. And then Guido put me on my back at the edge of the pool, lifted my left ankle to his shoulder, and turned me a bit, so that the older man could see the entry and pumping of the cock, while the young guy barebacked me to an ejaculation.

“OK, Siglioni called out when Guido was done. You know how to give a massage, New York?”

“I’ve been trained in that, yes,” I said, as I came up on my feet by the pool and Guido pushed off into the water to swim laps again.

“You take over here, with me, then,” Siglioni said, waving the masseur away. He turned over onto his back as I approached. He was in full, thick erection. He didn’t really want me to continue with the massage. He obviously wanted me to ride the cock. I did, after a few perfunctory squeezes of his muscles to do the massage “pretend.” After a bit of this, I climbed up on the table, positioned myself over his pelvis, and reached under and put the bulb of his shaft in the entrance to my hole. He grunted and snorted as he took my waist between two strong, calloused hands and I took the cock inside me. I gave him a cowboy ride to his coming and he expressed satisfaction with the ride.

Afterward, Guido took me up to the fourth floor and showed me into one of the smaller bedrooms on the front of the house. “This is where you’ll bring anyone this evening Sal says he wants you to. This will be your room. There will be two girls in the bedrooms under here on the third floor. Understand?”

I said I did and then he pushed me down on my back on the bed, grabbed my ankles, raised and spread my legs, moved in between my thighs, and thrust inside me and fucked me in a missionary. I gave him a good ride. He was a good rider and I also knew that he’d report my expertise back to his uncle. He was, in fact, very good, and young and vigorous. He filled me and pumped me at an off beat that had me jerking and groaning and working double time to merge with him. Eventually, we got together on the rhythm, though, and fucked like a well-oiled sex machine.

The suitcase I’d brought with me was already in the room, and when Guido left, I showered and dressed and let myself out of the house. It was 5:30. I’d have to be back for the party at 9:00. I drove back to the Royal Garden Resort, pulled on a Speedo, went down to the ocean, and swam out as far as I could before exhaustion slowed me to a stop. Then I swam back. I looked at the beach as I was swimming back and I saw the cop, Rob Brand, on a run on the beach, wearing just athletic shorts and sneakers. He looked awfully good. He paused on the beach in front of the Royal Garden and looked up at the façade of the hotel—looking high enough that I think he was picking out the balcony to my rental condo. He ran in place, but didn’t pause long before he resumed his run.

I wanted to call out to him from the ocean—I had a couple of hours to kill—but he wouldn’t have been able to hear me over the roar of the surf.

It was arousing to think he’d come back looking for me. He’d been something special in my business.

* * * *

I had a six-man/six cocks/six jack off evening at Salvatore Siglioni’s Surfside Beach house. That’s how I report my escort service jobs—how many men, how many cocks I had had to sheath, not just blow, and how many of their ejaculations. My ejaculations didn’t count in the report, but I tried to enjoy myself, and despite the mafia atmosphere, I managed to get off during all of the couplings.

This evening apparently was an investors and staff party. It went on mostly in the top-floor entertainment area of the Surfside Beach house, which included an open-roof verandah overlooking the ocean. There were maybe forty people there, mostly men. The men were divided between rich-looking middle-aged guys and younger and middle-aged ruffians. The latter were probably staff for Siglioni and were getting their reward this evening for the loyalty they showed the patriarch. Most of the sexual business was going to the two call girls who were there, but I got my share of attention. My johns that night were unevenly divided—two to investors and four to Salvatore and his crew, with the investors taking priority and coming earlier in the evening and the crew playing cleanup and reward for services as the party wore down.

I was dressed in silky white gauzy slacks showing red bikini briefs underneath, and a white mesh armless T-shirt that showed my tan, physique, and nipples, with the silver bars in them to good advantage. As I often did at such parties, I was barefoot, which gave off the “half-way-to-bed” aura. I had no trouble in such gear to readily see who would be interested and who wouldn’t. Most of the ones who showed interest were Salvatore’s staff. He apparently kept men about him with the same interests he and his nephew had. Guido was there, mostly moving about with another sleek, dark and sultry, young man of about his own age.

As I roamed the entertainment room and joined with this conversational group and another, I found that most of the investors wanted to talk about business while being more than a little hazy what business they meant, or sports, or getting pussy. A few did smile at me and touch me, including one tall, distinguished-looking, wavy gray-haired man, but none were showing interest in getting me alone until Salvatore came up to me with a tubby little middle-aged Arab-looking man with his tongue hanging out.

“This is Hamid, New York”—Salvatore only referred to me as New York. “He would like to see what rooms there are on the floor below this.” That was a signal if I’d ever heard one. And it was the correct signal. Hamid, who was wearing one of those white Arab robes that buttoned down from the throat, revealed to be naked underneath when, as he sat on the bed in the room assigned to me and I knelt in front of him, I unbuttoned and flared his robe open. He was in erection and in the need of the blow job I gave him. He had folds of fat around his middle, and I just closed my eyes and pretended I was giving the motorcycle cop head. He didn’t come then. He wanted to fuck me too. He was content in my bending over the bed on my stomach and him kneeling behind me, eating me out and then covering me in a doggie fuck. He was a fast shooter, so that didn’t take long.

He was just a tubby little Middle East man, but there had been something of danger in his eyes and of an unnatural lust and, as sometimes was the case and took me by surprise, once he was behind me and inside me and his hands moved to encase my throat as he thrust, there were a few moments of high emotion and arousal from the sensation that I was completely his for the moment and that he had exhibited the attitude that I wasn’t a person, just a vehicle for his pleasure, and that his pleasure might include snapping my neck at the moment of his ejaculation, fucking me to death. And I had become so jaded to my occupation, though only recently entered, that it aroused rather than horrified me. I moved a hand to my cock and stroked myself, with all of my sensations racing between the almost loving way he manipulated my throat with his hands and the movement of his cock in my passage.

We came together and it was only then, as the pressure on my throat lessened, that I looked around to see that one of Salvatore’s lieutenants, a muscular dark-toned man in his early forties named Frank, who had been following me with his eyes all evening, was standing in the open door to the corridor, leaning against the door frame, and watching the Arab fuck me.

It was the job. I managed. I knew how to give him what he wanted without gagging, and Hamid went back upstairs happy. I, strangely enough, was happy too. I was happy to be alive, when he so easily could have snapped my neck and a look into his eyes told me that the little man perhaps had done that before—snapped a young man’s neck during sex. Perhaps in his own country where he could get away with it without punishment. But I also was happy for those seconds of unexpected ecstasy when I felt in mortal danger. Left alone in the bedroom, with the thug, Frank still leaning into the door frame and watching me, I leaned down to sweep up my pants, briefs, and T-shirt to put them on. I’d already tossed the Arab’s spent condom into the trashcan next to the bed. Frank took three quick steps into the room though.

“You don’t need those for a while,” he growled. “You owe me some fun. Who knows what the Arab would have done to you if I hadn’t been watching?”

I realized he had a point. His fist closed around my wrist and he led me to the stairs next to the house elevator, which was humming its occupancy and either ascent or descent, and he pulled me down the stairs to the pool terrace.

He was a burly, hirsute man, but it was all muscle. He laid me down on a pool bed, with my head dangling over the end. I didn’t even think of resisting. This was an “anything goes” weekend stint. His shirt came off his back to expose his muscular torso—and he, like Salvatore, had the puckered scar of a bullet wound in his shoulder. He had a swirling, geometric pattern tattoo that covered his left breast and swirled onto his left arm and down to his elbow. When the shirt was off, he put the harness of his left-pit gun holster back in place, unzipped himself, and extracted a long, thick erection.

Grabbing my arched head in place between his big, rough hands, he held it steady as the bulb of his cock pressed at my lips. I opened my mouth to the cock, unhinging my jaw to take it all in, and held steady like the good whore I was while he worked it into my throat. His hands went to my throat, feeling where the cock bulb was reaching and for the second time in a half hour I had the sensation that a john I was servicing could snap my neck at will and that he had the thuggish attitude of just might deciding to do that. And again it sent my arousal up and I moaned for him.

Frank’s hands went to fisting mine and holding my hands away from my body as he fucked my throat. I lay there, giving him what he wanted. After a few minutes, he wanted to fuck another orifice and did so. He withdrew from my throat and moved over me on the pool bed, taking my ankles in his fists and raising and spreading them. He took his hands away, and I think I impressed him by being able to hold my legs in a wide V also by myself, with the strength of my leg muscles, while he worked on me between my thighs. He thrust inside my passage, bare-chested but still with his trousers on and that gun holster strapped to his chest, and fucked me hard and with vigor. I lay there, my head still arched over the end of the pool bed and watched the reflection of the moon in the rippling water of the pool and another couple—a man and one of the call girls—fucking on the other side of the pool, the ocean behind them.

I let Frank have what he wanted. That’s what I was being paid for. Frank was a thug. He treated me like I was just a piece of meat. At the height of the fuck, images of the motorcycle cop, Rob, went through my mind, and I opened further to Frank, my passage muscles rippling over his thrusting cock, and just as the call girl on the other side of the pool was crying out her passion, so did I. I took my cock in my hand and stroked myself to liftoff before Frank was finished with me and just left me there, just as the man on the other side of the pool left the call girl exhausted and flat out on the other pool bed. I didn’t let my legs down until he was gone.

The call girl wasn’t left alone as I was, though, to pull myself together and go back up to the room assigned to me and shower and dress before returning to the party. As I was leaving, another man was arriving in the pool area and was covering and penetrating the call girl, and beginning to pump her.

So far I was holding my own. I was glad that male prostitutes weren’t in as much demand in this party as call girls were.

After showering, I dressed, and went back to the party. I wasn’t quite ready to jump into the pit, though, so I picked up a glass of red wine and went out onto the fifth-floor terrace overlooking the ocean. A few other people were out there, mostly in small groups, but there was one man who was standing at the balcony rail alone. He turned and looked at me as I walked out onto the deck. It was the tall, distinguished looking, wavy gray-haired man whose eyes had been following me in the entertainment room earlier.

I walked over to him. “Is there something you want from me?” I asked. Salvatore hadn’t told me to go with this man, at least yet, but I had been able to tell that he probably was the biggest investor possibility at the party. Everyone had been deferential to him and Siglioni had taken him from conversation group to conversation group.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been staring, haven’t I? But I looked around earlier and you weren’t here.”

I was off doing what you could be having me doing too, I thought. This was one handsome man. I don’t think I’d mind writhing under him. I’d actually done pretty well in beddings so far this evening—nothing too demanding, and I’d gotten off each time. “When I was here at the party, it seems like every time I looked up, you were looking at me.”

“Again, I’m sorry. You just reminded me of someone.”

“Someone you liked or someone you didn’t?”

“Oh, it was someone I liked. Someone I liked very much. His name was Todd. He lived with me.”

“Todd? His name was Todd? It’s not Todd anymore, or Todd isn’t around anymore?”

“Todd’s dead. He died in motorcycle accident last year. I’m afraid I’ve had a hard time getting past that. You just look and move so much like him.”

“Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant,” I said. “This Todd. He was your boy? You fucked him?”

“Oh, yes, I fucked Todd.”

“And when you look at me, you want to fuck me too?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s what I’m here for. You can have what you want. No problem.”

“You don’t think—?”

“I think you’re just fine. Here, take my hand. Let me take you somewhere more private.”

We didn’t just fuck; we made love. He was a big-cocked man. He lay on top of me in a missionary on the bed in the room assigned to me, and I hooked my knees on his hips and pressed my fingers into his shoulder blades and didn’t have to pretend my moans and groans, as he plowed me deep and relentlessly in a steady beat that I melded with, moving my hips with the rhythm of his thrusts and causing my passage walls to grasp and squeeze and ripple over his moving cock.

He fucked me for over a half hour, coming close to sobs, and whispering the name “Todd.”

I did this for almost no other man, but when we were done and dressing, I slipped him two cards—one with the number of my escort agency in New York and the other with my own address in New York and my cell number.

The last I saw of him that night, as the party was thinning out, was him talking in serious tones with Siglioni. There was nothing smart in giving the man my contact information. I’d already figured out that Siglioni’s business, whatever it was, was one I didn’t want any connection with or to be within three states of. And this was someone Siglioni wanted to do business with. But all of the time the man was holding me close and was inside me, I was aching to be this Todd he was mourning. I hadn’t asked his name, though, so it would be up to him to call me if he really had an interest.

I thought I’d see him again, and talk to him further that evening, but that didn’t happen. The room was beginning to empty out. Most of those who were left were Siglioni’s men. His nephew and the nephew’s sidekick came to me and took me back down to my room. There they put me between them on the bed, Guido on the bottom, me straddling him in a cowboy, and his friend, whose name I never got, behind me, also inside me. The fucked me together, sharing me, both of their cocks inside me, and there for a while I could think of was being double stuffed and played like a calliope. This was the only time that day that I felt totally out of control and challenged beyond what I wanted. Both of the men were young and vigorous and they gave me no quarter.

When they were done, Guido delivered me to the larger bedroom across the hall, on the ocean side. He lowered me to a king-sized bed and told me to stay there until Siglioni came. This was Salvatore’s bedroom.

Salvatore was not a demanding bed partner. He fucked me from behind in a side split, but I got the impression that he was really too tired from the day to be frisky and was fucking me to maintain his commanding position in his business, whatever that was. It wasn’t long before he was snoring. I slipped out of the room, changed into street clothes I’d brought in my suitcase, and left the house. No one stopped me and there were plenty of goons lurking around with guns who would have if they’d been told to.

I already knew what tomorrow would bring. I was to be back here at 2:00 p.m. to ride with Siglioni to the nearby Indian Wells Golf Club, where Siglioni had business to deal on the sly with whoever he had been pulling investors together to back up his negotiations with. Siglioni was quite clear that if deal was made, I was part of agreement.

“And he plays rough,” Siglioni says. “Your agency assured us you could take bondage and a bit of whipping.”

“Yes,” I said.

“For what I’m paying for you, you’d better be good for that,” he growled.

* * * *

I was keyed up and couldn’t sleep. I didn’t get to bed until 3:30 a.m., but I was up before 8:00, had breakfasted, and was out on the beach, sitting on a towel and watching the surf roll in. I don’t think I was expecting or hoping for the motorcycle cop, Rob Sands, to be motoring by in a morning run just in athletic shorts and sneakers, but he did. He paused, running in place when he saw me. And then, of course, he came over, leaned down, and kissed me, his hand going to the silver bar in one of my nipples.

“Hi. You out on the beach just in case I jogged by?” he asked.

“Of course,” I answered, not know if that was true or not—at least in my consciousness, but happy that it worked out that way.

“I came by last night but you didn’t answer the door.”

“I wasn’t here.”

“Out on one of your assignments?”

“Let’s not go into that.” I wanted to keep sex with a cop completely separate from whatever I was involved with by attending Salvatore Siglioni’s parties. “Let’s just say I’m glad you’re here.”

“You weren’t put off . . . ? I was a little rough yesterday.”

“I like a little rough.”

“I could fuck you right here on the beach.”

I looked around and laughed. People were beginning to gather for a day at the beach. “We’d get sand where it didn’t belong. We’d get arrested.”

“Then I could fuck you in the jail cell. I’d handcuff you to the bars.”

“How about just upstairs in my hotel room?”

“What are you doing today.”

“I have to go out in the afternoon—about two. Don’t ask. And that’s probably it for the rest of the day.”

“How about I take you for a ride around Myrtle Beach and to lunch first?” Rob asked. “I’ve got clothes in the car I can change into.”

“After . . . ?”

“Yes, after I fuck your lights out.” Which he did, upstairs in the Royal Garden condo, both of us standing in front of the glass door out onto the balcony, Rob holding me in a close embrace from behind, cupping my chin with one hand, pulling my head back into his chest, and stroking me off with the other hand, while he fucked up into me with power thrusts from behind. He continued power driving me long after I’d splashed my cum on the glass of the door. Then he fucked me up against the wall tiles in the shower afterward as well.

We didn’t finish with that until almost 11:00, and then he took me for that ride around Myrtle Beach afterward, using my rented 370Z convertible.

“Give me the keys,” he’d said when we got down to the parking lot.

“It’s a rental. I’m the only one signed to drive it,” I said.

“Give me the fucking keys. I’m driving.”

“You always have to drive, do you?”

“Are you complaining? I don’t drive you well enough?”

I smiled and handed him the car keys. We cruised around, had lunch at a gay bar facing the beach on the south end, and he made a ceremony of paying.

“We could split the tab,” I said.

“You’re the bitch here—my bitch,” he growled. “Your job is to lay down and take it. I do the driving.”

I gave a little shudder. The controlling man thing aroused me.

We drove back into the Royal Garden Resort lot a few minutes after 1:00.

“I’m coming up,” he said.

“Not a good idea, I’m afraid. I have to be someplace else at 2:00. Come back tonight, about 10:00.”

“No can do. I’m on duty this evening.”

“Well then. What? Where are you going?”

He was going over into the corner of the lot. He put the top up on the 370Z and then took me into his arms across the front seat, unzipping himself and then me. We necked while each of us stroked the other off.

“That’ll have to do for now, but I’m not finished with you,” he said, as he started up the engine and drove the car to a space closer to the building. I barely made the 2:00 arrival at the Surfside Beach house.

* * * *

The cover for whatever meeting Salvatore Siglioni was having with a man named Tony Franchese was a golf tournament at the Indian Wells Golf Club. There were VIP stands with box seats, where I sat between Siglioni and Franchese, who was a large, muscular, thuggish man with rugged looks and a mean eye. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with beefy hands lined with gold rings, some with big stones in them. The chit chat across me was about sports and cars and politics and I was included, but more in a flirty, “What do you like in bed” sort of way from Franchese, who obviously was deciding whether I was enough of a reward on top of everything else to do this deal with Siglioni. We stayed only long enough to establish we’d been at the golf tournament that afternoon and then, at a signal from Franchese that he was satisfied, the two men and most of their attendants withdrew to a conference room in the club house to discuss their deal.

Nephew Guido and one of the bodyguard goons who had been giving me the eye took me to a house across a small lake from the club house and backing on one of the Fairways. Guido fucked me in one of the bedrooms there and then the goon fucked me. A call came through, presumably from the club house and I hustled down to the basement of the house, where there was a sex torture chamber, fully equipped, and with soundproof padding on walls.

Guido and the bodyguard laid me, naked, on my belly on the bed, spread-eagled and restrained at the four corners of the bed.

When Siglioni and Franchese arrived, I was left alone in the room with them, with Franchese doing the fucking honors and Siglioni sitting off to the side and watching. Franchese used a looped belt on my back and buttocks, but it wasn’t long before he was eating me out, using a dildo and a string of graduated beats on me, and then working on getting his fingers, bejeweled rings and all up inside me to the knuckles while gripping the hair on my head with the other hand and arching my head back.

I’m sure it looked more taxing than it actually was. I looked on the small and slender side, but I wasn’t as delicate and vulnerable as it seemed. I had seen a lot in the escort business and Franchese was just working on his arousal; he wasn’t beating me down. I made the noises that helped him go into a high before he mounted me from behind and above and fucked me to an ejaculation.

Afterward he and Salvatore went off to conclude their business and, eventually, Salvatore came back, climbed on top of me, and took his piece of me.

On the drive back to the Surfside Beach house, Guido suggested that I go out on the town with he and his friend from the previous evening who had doubled me with him—acting as if I was in love with them and would naturally want a repeat.

“Two problems,” I said. “I’d love to go, of course, but the contract ended with the action at the golf course house. If there’s more, I have to report it to the escort agency and your uncle will have to pay more. I can’t mix business with pleasure while I’m here. All of the play has to be accountable to the escort agency. That, and I have another assignment to go to. I have to fly back to New York tonight.”

The first was the truth; the latter two excuses were lies. The agency hadn’t said anything about making this a busman’s holiday. They didn’t care that the motorcycle cop was fucking me on time I did need to give to Siglioni. I’d had enough for today, and although being fucked by Guido was better than most of the other men I’d had to lay under here, but he wasn’t my choice on my own time. Only one man I’d given it to during the Siglioni contract treated me with respect, and it wasn’t Guido or any of his friends.

I had a brief moment of anxiety when we got to the house and I was walking to the rental 370Z. These men could just grab me and do anything they wanted with me—and I thought they were the type of thugs who wouldn’t think twice about it. I even felt a stab of arousal at the possibility. But Guido let me go.

I went back to the Royal Garden condo, showered, flopped on the bed, naked, and slept the sleep of the dead. I did wake up before dawn, wondering when Rob Brand was getting off duty and whether I’d hear a knock on the door. I woke up hard and stroking myself. I would have liked him to appear. My dreams had been nightmares, though, of the two worlds I’d encountered here in Myrtle Beach merging and not in a good way—my forceful cop lover somehow getting tangled up in the underworld dealing I thought I’d probably been involved in. What was happening in the dream wasn’t pretty.

I woke up determined that there would be a definite separation here. I had three more days of a vacation that had been tacked onto this assignment with Siglioni. I had to do something to make a separation, though.

I was at the airport at 9:00 the next morning, redoing my airline tickets, adding a roundtrip. I called Rob on the cellphone.

“I was just at the hotel,” he said. “They said you’d checked out. You didn’t tell me you were leaving today.” He sounded hurt.

“My business requires me to be back in New York today,” I lied. “But I’m coming right back. Are you working tonight?”

“No. I’m off all night.”

“Will you be with me all night?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve checked in at the Paradise Resort north of the airport.” I’d wanted to be as far away as possible from the Surfside Beach on the south end of the beach. “Can you come to me there at 8:00?”

“You bet.”

“Two more nights. I’ll be here two more nights. Can you—?”

“I’ll have you crying and hobbling. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” I said, with a smile.

After I disconnected, I called the office in New York. I wasn’t going to tell them I was making a U-turn there today, but I had to check in at the end of the Siglioni assignment. They said they liked to know their guy had survived an assignment like that. After this one, I didn’t think they were joking. Once again, I thought of the thugs and what they might have done with me—and once again I shocked myself by being aroused at the possibilities.

“There’s an assignment in Boston for you this weekend if you’re interested,” the dispatcher said. “The whole weekend. The client asked for you specifically.”

“Boston? I don’t think I know anyone in Boston. Did he give a name you can share?”

“Ben Grogan.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow.” I had too much to think about today. I couldn’t think beyond spending the whole night with Rob Brand on top of me, fucking me deep.

I was still in the departure lounge, when my cellphone rang.

“Hello? Ken? This is Ben Grogan. I don’t know if you remember me from Saturday night at Salvatore Siglioni’s party in Myrtle Beach. You gave me this number to call and the card from your escort agency. I didn’t want to ask Siglioni how to contact you. I decided I didn’t want to do business with him.”

I remembered him right away. The lover—the older, distinguished men who I reminded him of the young lover, Todd, he’d lost—the man who had fucked me like a lover. The one man in the Siglioni contract who had treated me with respect. So that was who wanted to hire me for the weekend in Boston. That’s right; he’d said he lived in Boston.

“Yes, I remember you Mr. Grogan.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I contacted your agency and—”

“Yes, I’d love to come see you in Boston next weekend,” I said. I’d have my fun with the power top motorcycle cop for the next couple of days, but Grogan was a possible keeper. I was looking forward to exploring the option of maybe becoming his Todd.