Eleon Trysts

“Does that arouse you?”

“That excites me,” I answered.

The leather sex club was on a narrow street in Limassol, on the southern coast of Cyprus. The room wasn’t large. It was dark and smokey. An X-frame was positioned in the center of a stage, lit up by a spotlight. A young blond man hung from the frame, facing it, and a leather-clad, dark, big bruiser of a gladiator was applying the whip to his bare back, buttocks, and thighs. The submissive twisted and turned, writhing under the snap of the whip. The lashes were teasing rather than lethal, but red welts were starting to appear. The muscular gladiator, wearing a black mask, black leather harnessing, and tight black leather chaps above black leather boots, the crotch exposed to show beefy balls and an erection, moved this way and that behind the youth, giving the men in the audience glimpses of the willowy white body of tender youth as he writhed on the X-frame. Men in the audience called out the cadence of the lashes.

I was held in the embrace of another hirsute, muscular, dark gladiator at the bar on the other end of the room, dressed as the big bruiser with the whip on the stage was. He held me in his lap. My torso and arms were stretched up, my wrists bound behind his neck. His finger moved down my chest, unbuttoning my black mess shirt, flaring it open. His hands snaked into the opening and closed over my pecs, squeezing. I gasped as he twisted my nipples. The hands glided down my chest, unzipped my fly, and pulled me out. I panted and writhed under his searching hands.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching. I wanted someone to be watching, but the scene on the platform for too compelling for those in the audience.

“Uspokoit’sya—Settle down,” my gladiator growled and I gasped again as a hand closed around my balls and he squeezed. My eyes watered and I let out a sob. “Settle down,” he commanded again, and he released my balls as I did so. A strong hand palmed my belly and the other one grasped and stroked my exposed cock. I was sitting in his lap, his huge erection pressing into my still-clothed buttocks.

I had drunk what had been given me. It had been drugged so that, although every sensation was heightened, my control was hindered. I was putty in the hands of my leather-clad gladiator—and I didn’t care. I wanted him to use and abuse me as the young man on the cross was being used and abused.

It was too dark in the room to determine how many were there, but, despite my little cries at the abusive working of my body, no one was paying attention to my captor and me. They were either watching the performance or engaged with each other. Looking over the space between bar and stage, my sense was one of undulating bodies, men doing the same with other men that my gladiator was doing with me and the monster on the stage was going with the young blond hanging on the X-frame.

I knew this was an extreme leather bar when I entered it.

The hand left my belly, moved up my chest again, gripped my chin, and turned my face to his. He took my lips roughly with his, pushing his tongue in, and taking me in a deep kiss that ended with him biting my lip and me giving a little yelp. The hand returned to my belly.

We were both watching the youth being whipped in a desultory fashion. I took in my breath and began to pant, feeling the cum rising in me. I moved within the embrace of my gladiator, but he was strong and held me fast.

Yes, yes, make me come. Punish me, I thought.

The big brute on the stage let the whip fall. He placed his hands between the thighs of the blond youth and lifted his legs straight out from his body. At the same time he pulled the young man’s hips back from the X-frame. The blond youth who had been hanging from the cross cried out as his captor saddled up behind him, penetrated, and began to pump, his plump bare buttocks moving forward and back, the cheeks contracting and expanding in the rhythm of the fuck.

My gladiator, his shaft pressing into my crack, held me close and stroked my cock in the same rhythm as the taking on the stage.

“Please, please, bring me off,” I begged my man in a hoarse whisper. With a cry, I came, my exclamation matching that of the youth on the stage, and I collapsed in my gladiator’s embrace.

“They have chambers here. Private chambers,” my gladiator whispered in my ears. “You came here for what I can give you.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I will use you.”

“Yes”

“And abuse you.”

“Yes.”

He gathered me up in his arms, slung me, belly down, over his shoulder, and carried me through a beaded-curtain-covered doorway, down a dark corridor, to a chamber with stone walls and a stone floor. He stripped me and hung me by my still-bound wrists from chains hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the chamber. He trapped my cock in a cock cage and weighed my balls down with weights. Clips attached to a chain were attached to my nipples. I screamed as he pulled on the chain. He laughed.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I answered.

“I would not have stopped anyway,” he said—and laughed.

He strapped me with a leather strap—on the back and the belly, on the buttocks and on the thighs. And on the cock and balls. He did not put the power of his beefy musculature in the strikes. They were more of a tease—except when they weren’t. I cried out in surprise and pain-passion periodically as he put more power into the strike—and laughed.

“Do you want me to stop now?”

“No,” I sobbed.

“Good. You take it good. I fuck you soon.”

Embracing me close from behind, he glided his hands all over my body. His erection pressed into the small of my back and he pressed it down to between my thighs under my buttocks, moving it in and out, dry humping me as he prodded and pinch the flesh of my body. I was breathing heavily and giving exclamations whenever there were quick, sharp flashes of pain at what he was doing with my body.

I’d never felt so alive and so aroused. “Fuck me. Put it in me,” I pleaded. He laughed.

He cupped my chin from behind and turned my face to his, taking my mouth with his. A hand went to my cock and grasped it, and he jacked me off again while he was brutally kissing me on the mouth and the cheek and in the hollow of my throat. I ejaculated again out over the stone floor.

Holding me close to him still he stroked my flanks with his fingers. “Such a beautiful body. I will enjoy using you. I will do whatever I want with you.”

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Fuck me. Do me.”

He ran his hands up inside my thighs, gripped them high up with his hands. He raised my legs straight out from my body and pulled my hips back, arching my back. And then he mounted and penetrated me, filling, stretching, and possessing me.

He fucked the hell out of me.

* * * *

“And this is Nikolai Kirov, director of the Russian Cultural Centre on Alasias Street. Nikolai, this is the new, at least temporary, addition as associate director of the American Center, Neal Ramsey.” The man who took my hand in his big paw and gave me a smirky smile was my gladiator at the sex club in Limassol three nights earlier.

“And Francois Godot of the Institut Français de Chypre, Costa Saveros of the Cyprus Tourist Organization, and I believe you know Marco from the Foreign Ministry.” The introductions by the director of the British Council, Gillian Upton, at the open-air meze restaurant in the square of the old town of Strovolos, which had been swallowed up the Nicosia, Cyprus’s capital, were quick and smooth enough that I didn’t have time to give a reaction to my captor and sexual torturer from my visit to the leather sex club.

The 10:00 p.m. Saturday Night dinner party, the traditional supper time in Cyprus, was being held to welcome me to Cyprus and the cultural affairs office of the American Embassy. In addition to those I’d just been introduced to, all of whom were attached to the cultural outreach programs of their respective countries, including the two from Cyprus itself, the dinner guests included the American cultural attaché, and director of the American Center, Karen Barton, and her husband, Peter Prentis, who I worked with in the other half of my temporary assignment to the American Embassy in Nicosia.

I didn’t have longer to think on the director of the Russian Culture Centre having been the leather-clad muscleman who had hung me in a dungeon and used and abused me before we were all seated at the table and passing around the bottles of Carlsberg beer and the never-ending plates of bits of this and that that made up a Cypriot meze meal. Kirov was seated across from me, with Francois Godot beside me and Gillian Upton beside Kirov. The others were at the other end of the table and essentially beyond the discussion between the four of us—or, mainly the British and French women and me, as Kirov spent most of the time glowering at me with a little knowing smile and acting as if he didn’t speak English well. I knew for a fact, though, that he spoke it adequately enough to give commands on sexual obedience.

I had readily recognized him without his mask, and he knew who I was too. The hard toe of his black leather boots kept pressing painfully into the shin of one or the other of my legs under the table. In recognition of who he had been three nights before and his domination, I didn’t move my legs away.

“Have you settled into a routine yet?” Gillian asked me. “You’ve been here now for what, three, four weeks?”

“Four,” I said. “And yes, my schedule is busy and spread over the day, but it includes attending cultural events and venues in the evening, so I manage to get a workday in.”

“You have found some interesting kluby—what you, say, clubs—have you?” Kirov asked, giving me a little smile.

“Yes, they have interesting clubs here in Cyprus. I’ve already joined the Eleon tennis and swim club,” I answered breezily, not taking that further.

“I understand you are working at the American Center only part of the time and that you are here only temporarily,” Francois said.

“Yes. I’m really only here to act as executive director of a NATO foreign ministers conference being held at the Ledra Palace Hotel. That includes effort by both the American Center and the embassy itself, so I split my time in preparation for the conference between those two. When the conference is over, I’ll move on.”

“Pity,” Kirov said. “You seem to be someone who would really enjoy what Cyprus had to offer—so many exotic experiences to be had here.”

“So, I’ve heard,” I said.

“And mayhap you have already experienced some of them?” He flashed me a smile.

“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve already had some very fine experiences.”

Probably thinking we were just making small talk, Francois returned to business. “You must have a crazy schedule, serving two masters.”

“Perhaps more than two,” Kirov interjected, but Francois went on.

“And I hope you have time to enjoy what the lovely island has to offer. Such variety. You know at this time of year you can snow ski in the Troodos Mountains in the morning and swim in the Mediterranean from the beaches on the south coast in the afternoon.”

“And go to interesting clubs at night,” Kirov added.

“I do manage to fit all of that into my schedule,” I said. “I start with the ambassador’s country team meeting at 8:30 nearly every work day. Those meetings don’t last more than an hour and it covers the full daily schedule and issues running of the embassy’s principle officers. I’m not one of those, but as the NATO conference is an important issue and I also write up press releases for other embassy business, I am included in the meetings. We meet in one of those secure bubbles they call SCIFs—probably less hush hush than it seems, but it’s the nation’s business. I do need my exercise, though, so—”

“Yes, I can see that you keep yourself in top shape,” Kirov interjected.

“So, it’s good that the tennis and swim club I’ve joined, the Eleon, is close to the embassy,” I continued, looking directly at Kirov, letting me know where he could find me most weekday mornings. “I swim there for about an hour after the embassy’s country team meeting, or I have a pickup tennis match on the clay courts if someone’s there and needing another player. The club usually is deserted at that hour, though, which is good for me, as I swim laps in the Olympic-sized pool there. Then I go to the American Center for a couple of hours, eat lunch with someone or other involved in the center’s cultural outreach, work in the embassy in the afternoon, and, since I have no other responsibilities to family or anything since I’m on temporary duty here, I can attend cultural events in the evening.”

“And go clubbing when you’re free,” Kirov said.

“Yes.”

“There are some very interesting clubs on the island. I can take you at . . . excuse me, my English isn’t the best . . . take you to some unusual ones. We can come . . . go . . . together some evening.”

“Yes, that would be splendid,” I said, hoping that the two women in the conversation with us weren’t picking up on the undertones here.

At that point Kirov mostly dropped out of the conversation, and, while we paced our way through the meze dishes and refilled our beer glasses, the British and French cultural affairs officers and I talked about what was happening on the island currently on the arts and entertainment scene.

By 11:30, the dishes had stopped coming and we were all preparing to leave.

“Perhaps we stay a bit longer, Neal and I,” Kirov said. “We have yet to talk about what clubs I can show him.”

“I really should be going home,” I said. “I’m free tomorrow, Sunday, but I really should do laundry and clean the flat.”

“This is Cyprus. You don’t need clothes,” Kirov said and laughed at his own joke. “The weather is always good for going native. And you are such a well-built man.”

“Do you need a ride home?” Gillian asked. “I understand you’re having trouble with the rental cars here.”

“Oh, I can walk,” I said. “I live nearby.”

“I’ll drive him,” Kirov said, using that moment to grind the sole of his boot into my crotch under the table. “We stay and talk some more.”

And then it was just the two of us at the table, although we wouldn’t be here long either. The waiters were beginning to take the cloths off the other tables.

“I really should go, Nikolai,” I said, “and I really do live close enough to walk.”

“I think not. I think I take you to my flat and fuck your lights out.” He unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open enough to show he was wearing his black leather harness on his muscular chest. I sucked in air. “I think you need what I can give you. And I think you will go with me like, what you say, yagnenok na zaklaniye—a lamb to the slaughter.”

“Why would you think that?” I asked. He was beginning to irritate me. He aroused me and I did want to be with him, but . . .

“Because of these,” he said. He reached down into a pocket of the jacket he’d draped on the back of his chair and came up with a set of photographs. He showed them to me. Photos had been taken of me hanging from the ceiling in the dungeon room at the Limassol sex club and of Nikolai using and abusing my body.

“I do not think that your ambassador would be pleased with you if he knew what sort of clubs you liked to visit here in Cyprus,” Kirov said, the smirky smile returned to his face. “Come. We go to my flat, and I have my way with you again. You do have a beautiful body. I want to play with it more.”

* * * *

As he closed the door into his flat in the penthouse of an employee apartment house attached to the Russian Cultural Centre, Nikolai Kirov turned to me, slapped me across the face, and put his fist into my belly as I doubled over and went down. Neither blow was a strong one. They mainly surprised and immediately put me, gasping, under his control. He reached down and stripped me there and then, as he’d done in the sex club, he threw me over his shoulder, belly down, and marched me through the flat—through the living area, down a corridor, into a bedroom, and beyond, to what seemed to have been a dressing area before it had been painted all black—floor, walls, and ceiling—and a black leather sling and black-painted stocks and an X-frame had been installed.

He put me in the stocks, but not in the conventional, face down position. My head and hands were put in the stock holes with me facing up. My feet were pressed into the black rubber matting on the floor and my back painfully arched. The stocks were too high for me to go down onto my knees. Kirov briefly hovered over me, taking my lips with his, and the fingers of one of his hands snacked between my thighs, under my balls, and he entered my ass with the fingers and fucked me with them briefly. When he came out of the kiss, he popped a ball gag in my mouth. I wasn’t going to be raising any of the neighbors with my screaming, but since it seemed clear that all of the residents were employees of this man and the Russian Cultural Center, it didn’t seem likely anyone would hear screaming and come to my rescue anyway.

When he returned—mercifully in a short period of time—he was in his leathermen gear again. He had no need for a mask now and wasn’t wearing one. He was in erection.

He moved me from the stocks to the sling, putting me on my back and restraining my wrists and ankles high on the four chains the sling hung from. In heat, he mounted and penetrated me, and fucked me in the sling before turning to any games. But then, when both he and I had ejaculated, he moved on to the games. The games primarily consisted of using an electroshock wand to touch me here, there, and everywhere to enjoy my writhing and bouncing up and down and back and forth within the confines of my bounds, while I bit hard on the rubber ball gag and emitted guttural responses to the shocks, which not only made me jerk and lurch but also made me hard as a rock. He brought in a string of graduated rubber graduated tear-drop-shaped balls, which he fed up into my ass and then slowly pulled out.

In the wake of this exercise, he pulled a latex glove onto his right hand, which he lifted to show me and then moved it down to between my spread thighs. I shook my head, tensed, huffed through the gag, and writhed in the sling, trying my best to oppose what it seemed he was going to do.

“Rasslabit’sya—Relax,” he murmured as his bunched-up fingers went in to the knuckles. “We won’t do that today. But we will do it someday. You will need to build up to it, with the use of the strings of balls. I’m just checking what we’ll need to do to prepare you.” pulling the hand out, he moved between my legs and pulled the gag out of my mouth. I gasped as he leaned down to capture my mouth with his again, because he also thrust up into my ass channel with his cock and began to slow pump me again. A hand was wrapped around my shaft and he was jacking me off.

When he came out of the kiss, I whispered, “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? And why are you blackmailing me into it? You know I am a slave to what you do with me anyway.”

“I want to be sure. And you should know what I want beyond the sex.”

“What?”

“Think. I am Russian. Do you think this is really a Russian cultural organization? You are with the American Embassy. You attend the ambassador’s morning meeting. You will handle all of the papers from the coming NATO conference here.”

“You want me to spy for you.”

“Verno—Correct.”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Those photos. Going to your ambassador. I will be taking more photos of you like this, with the string of beads coming out of your ass. Who is your master?”

“You,” I whined.

“You will do what I want.”

“Yes.”

Kirov did, in fact, take more photos of me in the sling after he was finished fucking me and jacking me off. He let me clean up in one of his bathrooms. He didn’t drive me back to my flat. I had to walk. Considering what he did to me in his torture room, I had to stumble home.

“We should not be seen except in the cultural context now,” he said. “I will contact you. In the meantime, collect whatever you think may be of interest to my government.”

“Yes . . . master.”

* * * *

Monday morning, four weeks later, with the foreign ministers of the NATO countries scheduled to arrive at the end of the week for three days of consultations. I was busy, but schedules are schedules. I left the country team meeting with the ambassador, went back to my office in the embassy, transcribed some notes, and then added those to some papers on the conference and slipped them into the pouch I’d devised on the inside of my left trouser leg. I’d take my gym bag and brief case. The guards at reception would go over both of those. Neither would run a hand down my pantleg to discover the papers I was taking out, though.

The Eleon tennis and swim club was only two lots over from the American Embassy and I navigated that on foot, just as I had established as my weekday routine. The Eleon had separate changing rooms off the central men’s locker room. The doors to these rooms had combination locks on them. You could change the combination each time you used one of the rooms. I more or less had the same changing room each morning, as I was coming five or six mornings a week during a period when there rarely was anyone else there.

The changing room was small, but there were three lockers against one wall and a bench that was anchored to the center of the room. When I took my clothes off, I transferred the papers from inside my pant leg to a manila folder, which I put in the side compartment of my gym bag, changed into a Speedo, and put the clothes, the brief case, and the gym bag in one of the lockers. I had my own combination lock for that.

Locking the changing room door behind me, I padded out to the swimming pool with a beach towel and a paperback book to read a few pages in while I dried off after the swim. I slipped into the pool and had done ten laps the long way in the Olympic-sized pool before I saw him, Nikolai Kirov, dressed, standing at the end of the pool above the lane I was swimming in. When he saw that I’d seen him, he turned and walked into the locker room. He knew what combination I’d used for the changing room door, so he was waiting for me in there when I came out of the pool, dried off, and entered the locker room.

“Do you have something for me?” Kirov asked when I entered the changing room and closed and latched the door behind me.

“Hello to you too,” I said.

He walked over, slapped me across the face, pulled my face to his for a deep kiss, and then released me and repeated, “Do you have something for me? The NATO meeting starts later this week. Surely you have a finished agenda you can give me.”

“Yes,” I said, putting my hand up to my face where he’d slapped me. It hadn’t been a pat. Receiving it from him, though, with all that I associated with him now, I was going hard and my heart was beginning to race. We’d met here, like this, three times before and he’d fucked me in a new way each time when I handed over something he might feel useful. I went to the locker, opened it, pulled out the manila envelope, and handed it to him. He slapped me on the buttocks as I passed him. “This includes the agenda and a couple of position papers already sent in,” I said as I handed him the envelope. “Also early drafts of initial press releases. You can see from them the tack being suggested to take on Russia and Ukraine. And, on Cyprus, the mainland Turks have made new demands of U.S. policy on the Turkish north. The ambassador gave us talking points on that in today’s country team meeting.”

He took the envelope and headed to the door.

“Don’t you have something for me too,” I said. It had to remain clear to him that his hold over me in all of this was sexual.

He turned and raised his hand to strike me again. I cowered, but I also went even harder. He could see from the close cut of the Speedo I was wearing that I was hard. He laughed, stooping down near the door and picking up a small leather bag he’d brought. “Oh, I wouldn’t forget you—if only for my own pleasure. You’ll be busy, I think, for the next couple of weeks and we probably won’t be able to meet. Something special for today, then.”

And special it was. We’d been in training for this for the past four weeks. He had restraints in the bag and a strap, latex gloves, a ball gag, and plenty of lube.

I was bound, belly down, on the bench, with my wrists restrained to base of the legs on one side and my ankles to the base of the legs on the other. The ball gag muted my wish to scream. He softened me up with lashes from the strap and then, pulling a glove on his right hand, waving it in front of my face, and liberally lubing it and my asshole up, we “celebrated” nearly four weeks of work on the technique by him being able to get his fist inside my ass up to the wrist and fist fucking me. Eventually, he pulled the fist out, mounted me from above and behind, thrust up inside me, and fucked me hard. As he fucked me, the gloved hand snaked under my thigh, spent some time—causing me to bite into the rubber ball gag and my eyes to water—in squeezing and distending my balls and then to milk my cock.

I should have known that this time he’d be extra cruel. But in various ways I needed him to be. I needed him to believe that this was why I sold my country’s secrets out to him—not because he had compromising photos of me but because I could only reach the heights of sexual fulfillment from him torturing me this way and then finishing me off with him inside me. He needed not to be thinking of any other reason I would let him degrade me like this and that I’ve give him my country’s secrets. But beyond that, I had to admit to myself that I had come to want this from him.

When he left, he’d released the restraints and I just lay there, collapsed on the bench. He’d threatened to leave me bound to be found there, and for a moment I had thought—as he had no doubt wanted me to think—that he would do so. But if I’d been thinking straight I, of course, would have known he wouldn’t do that. I was a goldmine of information for him and the Russian government. He needed this to continue in secret. He needed me to continue spying for him—even if he reached a point where the sexual torture was no longer any pleasure for him.

* * * *

I hobbled back to the embassy, breaking my usual schedule of going to the American Center near the square where the parliament building and Cyprus Museum were located. I knew I had a visitor at the embassy. It was confirmed that I did when I entered the embassy’s main reception area. I’d been expecting this and was prepared for it—mentally, at least, not so much physically as hard as Nikolai Kirov had just worked me over. My visitor would understand but I doubted it would make him show any mercy.

I went up the Station, which is what the offices given over to the CIA staff in an embassy were called. That’s where I had an office. That’s what I was, a CIA agent, in the half a day that I wasn’t assigned to the American Center to work as the executive officer of the coming NATO foreign minister’s conference. I was actually doing that as a CIA officer—a young one, though. This was only my third special assignment and, thus far, the most demanding one I had faced.

I went to the office of the chief of station, Jock Campbell. He wasn’t alone. Waiting there for me also was my real boss, Sam Winterberry, chief of a special CIA operations unit called the Candy Store, which combined the world’s two oldest professions, spying and prostitution, to pursue U.S. intelligence goals.

“Hello, Chris,” Winterberry said when I entered the office (my real name wasn’t Neal Ramsey either, the name I was going by on this temporary assignment). He didn’t bother to get up from his seat. We all knew who was senior here. Winterberry was, in fact, a commanding figure even in his fifties. He’s what a retired Marine colonel would look like at that age if he had become the CEO of a Fortune 500 company afterward and also was a noted mountain climber. “I came for the NATO conference and to wrap up that phase of your running the Russian spy. Jock here has been keeping me apprised at how well you’ve been playing this Kirov character, so I didn’t need to check in before now. It’s time, though. You’ve got him, don’t you? He doesn’t suspect you’re running him, does he?”

“No. I’m sure he’s convinced he fully controls me and that all of the stuff I’ve been feeding him is golden.”

Winterberry laughed. “If his masters in Moscow believe in all of that crap we’re feeding them through you, they’ll be completely confused by what really happens. It could be weeks or months before they catch on to the disinformation scheme. You think you can hold out with this Kirov guy for as long as it takes? I hear he’s one brutal muvva.”

I had to admit that I’d been wondering about that myself, but before I could answer that someone came by and Campbell wanted to introduce her to Winterberry, who was a real legend in the Agency. When she’d moved on, Winterberry was ready to move on as well.

“I want you to go to lunch with me at my hotel now, Chris. Just you and me. I’m staying at the Hilton.”

I knew what that meant. Jock Campbell knew what that meant. Everyone who had ever worked with Sam Winterberry or who had observed his method knew what that meant. Sam Winterberry kept his agents in line by owning them—by fucking them and mastering them. And he was forever reasserting his control.