Insurgency Control
by Habu
24 Apr 2023 927 readers Score 8.5 (16 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Despite being on the bottom, the man was in full control of the Cowboy-position fuck, grasping the small, blond, achingly handsome, deceptively innocent-looking, full-lipped, and sleek-bodied twenty-five-year-old by the waist between two strong hands and helping the young man rise and fall on his thick, Trojan Magnum-sheathed cock. The young man was on the job but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy doing his job. The man on the bottom was on the job too. It was clear he would be getting whatever he wanted.
They were both fully aware of the beach resort attendant who had peered at them from the open French doors facing the sea on this French-speaking Caribbean island. The island was ruled with an iron fist, but its coastline was dotted with specialty resort enclaves like this one at Le Marin that separated the wealthy tourists from the far-less-wealthy islanders.
The man was bouncing Scott up and down on his shaft, racing toward an ejaculation so brutally that Scott lost any control of the rhythm and just flopped around like a rag doll, taking the pounding deep and moaning and exclaiming the fully used ecstasy of the rough treatment.
Scott cried out an “Oh, shit; oh, fuck, you’re killin’ me,” as the man fired off his loads—one, two, three—and released his grip, letting the smaller, younger man fall forward onto his chest. Even after all the time this man had fucked him, Scott was still amazed that a man this old could have this stamina and vigor—and these many ejaculations in him.
Making sure the peeking attendant caught the action, the man reached over to the nightstand, picked up a wad of U.S. currency bills, and stuffed them into the waistband of the red-silk jock strap Scott was still, if ineffectively, wearing.
The attendant withdrew, no doubt to report on the young, male whore independently working the guests of the island’s exclusive gay resort. A moment later the head of another young man peered in from the door of the suite’s adjoining room and said, “Down on the beach now, chief.”
The man pushed Scott off of his body onto his back beside him on the bed, muttering, “Showtime.” Scott lay there, panting.
That wasn’t showtime, he was thinking.
His eyes followed the figure of the thuggish man around the suite, as the man showered, pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, and came over and slapped the young man on the hip. “I said it was showtime,” he muttered. “You are ready. I am impressed that you have kept in such good shape.”
Scott groaned, rolled off the bed, and headed for the shower. He could say the same for his boss.
* * * *
“Haven’t I seen you in the town? You aren’t a guest at the resort, are you?”
Scott looked up into the eyes of the man who was standing over where Scott was half reclining on the beach, facing the sea. After leaving Sam, the man who’d fucked him in the resort bedroom, Scott had quickly showered; changed into a red Speedo; saluted Sam, lounging against the frame of the French doors out onto the resort beach; and taken up station on the towel, posing for all to ogle who wanted to. As this was a gay resort on the French Caribbean island that charged a hefty price for mostly older men to ogle younger men brought in to idle on the resort beach, Scott got quite a few looks and more than one proposition before the handsome, chocolate-colored, muscular man in his thirties, dressed in a white polo shirt and tan trousers stopped and challenged him. It wasn’t the usual first thing that men had said to Scott here on the beach.
“Hello. My name is Erik, Scott answered in French.” Scott Campbell wasn’t his real name, but he wasn’t ready to give a possible mark even the name he had been using on the island. He assessed the man as a possible sex partner and was satisfied. The brown men of this island were almost universally handsome and sexy. “I am a new resident here. I work for the Belgium nonprofit, Récole Abondante, supporting the farmers in the mountains inland from here. I was told that the beach resorts here accorded our workers privileges.”
“That would be the regular resorts,” the man said. “This is a special resort.”
“How so?”
“This is for gay men only. And I believe you aren’t just using the privileges of the resort. I’m told you are working as a prostitute for men here. Can you even prove you work for Récole Abondante?”
“Who told you that—that I’m a prostitute?” Scott asked as he fished out his Récole Abondante credentials and showed them to the man.
“You were seen with a guest just now—servicing him.”
“And you are here because you are gay?” Scott asked. He smiled up at the man and reached out and cupped a hand around the man’s lower leg. The man did not shirk away from him. “Perhaps we could arrange something here.”
“Not here,” the man said. “I was sent out to talk to you because I am the resort’s lawyer. My sexual preference is not involved here.”
“It isn’t? Don’t I discern some interest in those trousers of yours? You said ‘not here.’ Does that mean ‘not anywhere,’ or just here where your employers can see you consorting with me? Does the resort really disapprove of me sitting out here on the beach and maybe giving some of the guests some entertainment? Does the resort think the men don’t come here for the sort of services I can provide? If ‘not here,’ you wouldn’t be interested in an arrangement here? Does that mean you might be interested in an arrangement elsewhere? You are quite a sexy man. I must admit that I have a fetish for black men and you are a prime example of one.”
“It isn’t that the resort disapproves of young men like you entertaining the guests. It’s that this is a closed resort. If you entertain men here, the resort wants part of your takings—50 percent is the usual arrangement.”
Ah, that got down to the real issue. “I can understand that. I have no problem with that.”
“You would have to sign a contract and make arrangements for paying into the system. As I said, I am the resort’s lawyer. My name is Austin Deuir. I can draw up the contract to be signed.”
“To be arranged here or at your offices?” Scott asked. “You haven’t responded on whether you’d be interested in an arrangement elsewhere other than inside the resort. I would be interested.”
“Yes, at my offices. And yes, I would be interested in an arrangement there. Are you free to go to my offices in town now?”
“Absolutely, Austin. I was afraid you wouldn’t be interested—and wouldn’t ask.” And that was exactly it. He very much wanted to be covered by the lawyer, Austin Deuir, and not just for business purposes. The man had been more fit looking that Scott had hoped to expect.
The lawyer’s office was in the old part of Le Marin, on a narrow, cobble-stoned street leading down to the marina and the sea. They both were on motorbikes, which were the standard means of transportation on this part of the island. The offices were clean, but functional.
“Go on through to my office,” Deuir said, as he stopped at the reception desk to tell the young man sitting there, who was as chocolate and handsome as Deuir was, that this would be his last appointment of the day and that the clerk could leave a bit early. From the look the clerk gave him when he passed by, Scott got the impression that Deuir was fucking the clerk, who had expected that to happen today. That Scott had shown up didn’t appear to be appreciated by the clerk in the least. The clerk was so good-looking that Scott took the young man’s exhibited disappointed that it wouldn’t be him Deuir would be covering this evening as a testimonial to Deuir’s great prowess as a lover. Scott shuddered in anticipation of enjoying this phase of his job.
Deuir’s office was as streamlined as his waiting room had been. Everything was clean and in good condition; it just all was very functional. The desk was cleared off. Scott looked around and wondered where they’d do it. There was a Danish-style sofa and the desk. The desk looked the sturdier of the two. The two men were of average height, Deuir taller than Scott, and both were slim, if muscular and hard bodied, but the sofa didn’t really look like it would support their weight if it was an athletic fuck. Deuir looked like he would do an athletic fuck.
Scott felt himself going hard.
The desk it probably was, Scott thought, and he perched on it as Deuir entered the room and shut and locked the door to the outer office. Showtime, Scott assumed.
He assumed wrong. “Business before pleasure,” Deuir said, and he opened a filing cabinet and took out some papers—the contract. “The resort specifies the fee,” he said. “They don’t claim anything on a tip—checking on that is too much trouble for them—so, if you want to make good money at this, you’ll have to give very good satisfaction to the guest.”
Scott looked at the contract. “It’s fine,” he said. He didn’t really give a shit about the money or a contract, for that matter. He didn’t even know if he’d be turning many tricks. That wasn’t what this was all about.
“What name on the contract?” Deuir asked, all business now. “And I’ll have to see a passport.”
Luckily, Scott had a passport in the name of Erik Jouret. He told the lawyer the name and handed the passport over.
“You’re not Belgian? This is a Canadian passport.”
“I’m Canadian. I’m from French Canada—Montreal. Récole Abondante is an international nonprofit. We mainly introduce farm machinery into developing countries. I assess what’s needed, get it shipped in, and show the farmers how to use it.”
“And lay down for men at gay resorts on the side,” Deuir said as he finished up filling in the contract and turned it to Scott for signature.
“Yes, when that work is available,” Scott answered. “I like having sex with men. A really do work a job for Récole Abondante. Is it time for pleasure now? Where would you like to have me?”
“Right here on the desk,” Deuir said. “There’s a bathroom over there if you wish to prepare yourself. I would like to see you naked. Let me watch you undress now and then pose for me when you come back in the room, please. Play with yourself while I watch. You are a beautiful young man.”
The desk. I knew it, Scott thought, as he stood and started to unbutton his shirt.
“No, wait,” Deuir said, reaching out and touching Scott’s just-revealed nipple. “Let me undress you.”
* * * *
Just as Scott surmised, Deuir fucked him on the desk. Both men were naked; each was impressed by the body of the man he was going to merge with. Scott hadn’t lied that fit and well-hung black men were a fetish of his. He himself was a somewhat smaller-than-average slim blond, who, when his shoulder-length hair was let down, as it was now, was androgynous. Deuir, a bit larger than average, muscular, and hot-chocolate black, was naturally dominant. Scott’s ankles were hooked on the French islander black’s shoulders, as Deuir crouched between the younger man’s thighs, clutched Scott’s throat with one hand to keep the young man held down and under control, and palmed Scott’s chest with the other. Scott, in turn, pressed the palm of one hand into Deuir’s chest and grasped and stroked his own cock with the other as the bigger man slowly forced his cock in, stretching a moaning Scott, waited for a moment for Scott to adjust to the girth, and, when he had, pumped him hard, fast, and deep.
“You take it like a pro,” Deuir muttered. “Don’t try to tell me you aren’t a prostitute.”
Scott didn’t try to tell him he wasn’t one, although that wasn’t all that he was and Deuir would not have been pleased to know the rest. He just continued taking it like a pro.
As the fuck continued and intensified, Scott took his ankles off Deuir’s shoulders, bent his legs, pressing the heels of his feet into the edge of the desk, and used them to lift his pelvis to the penetration and to rock with the fuck. Both men were breathing hard and panting as they fucked like stags in heat, but both froze as a door at the back of the room Scott hadn’t seen before opened and a young, muscular, mulatto man entered, saying, “You’re still here, Austin. We have to . . .” He stopped, though, when he saw what was happening on the desk. He didn’t turn and leave. He smiled, went to the side of the room, giving him a good, from-the-side, view of the scene. He unbuttoned his shorts, pulled out a long, thick cock, and stroked himself as he watched the action.
When the fuck was interrupted by the appearance of the other man, older than Scott but younger, more muscular, and less chocolate than Deuir, Deuir used the break to change the position. He separated from Scott and pulled the young man off the desk, exchanging positions with him. Deuir went down on his back on the desk, and muttered. “You. Ride me.”
Scott followed the direction the lawyer’s hands were urging him onto, climbing up on the desk, saddling himself on the older man’s pelvis, and descending his ass on Deuir’s erection. Helping him in place with a grip on Scott’s waist, Deuir put the young man back on his cock, and, Scott’s face turned toward Deuir’s and his hands palming the lawyer’s pecs, Scott commenced riding the cock in long, slow strokes.
Deuir turned his face to the third man who had entered the room, and said, “C'est un vrai chéri, Marc. Rejoins moi—He’s a real honey, Marc. Join me.”
Scott smiled at the mention of the name, Marc. Bingo, he thought. Reaching his goal was far easier than he thought it would be. But then he had more pressing matters to think of. With a laugh, the third man was stripping off his T-shirt and shorts, revealing a magnificent, powerful body and gigantic erection. He moved over to behind Scott and between Deuir’s spread thighs and palmed Scott’s buttocks, spreading them. He put himself into position, penetrated on top of Deuir’s already-buried shaft, and, as Scott writhed and panted and cried out to the ceiling of the office, the two brown islanders shared him in a double penetration.
For the next several minutes Scott wasn’t able to think of anything but the two cocks inside him simultaneously and of surviving the glorious double fuck by two hung, black studs.
A small bathroom was attached to the office and Deuir let Scott go in there to clean up when the two men were done with him. When Scott came out, Deuir, redressing, was alone in the office, but the door to the reception room was open and Scott could hear the other man moving around in there. He obviously still had business to do with the lawyer.
“Who was that?” Scott asked, not complaining or otherwise referring to how he had just been used by both of them.
“A client—a privileged client. You need know nothing more about him,” Deuir said, “unless he wants you to.”
Scott had every reason to believe that the man wanted him to, because Deuir had come first, rolled out from underneath Scott, and gone to the bathroom. While he was gone, the other man had continued to fuck Scott on the desk in the doggy position, and, after he’d come, he leaned over and whispered in Scott’s ear, “Vous êtes douce—You are sweet. Je veux te baiser encore—I want to have you again. You are, I assume, one of Austin’s whores. Where do you—?”
“I’m an aid worker for Récole Abondante,” Scott answered. “I am working with farmers up in the mountains near Lourdes. And I am not just one of the lawyer’s whores, but, Je te laisserais volontiers me baiser à nouvea—I would gladly let you fuck me again.”
“You could be someone else’s whore too?”
“I could be yours. I have been yours. I could be yours again anytime you want.”
“You want me to fuck you again?”
“Et encore et encore et encore—And again and again,” Scott answered.
“Bon. I will find you. Are you an American?” His demeanor had changed a bit and he was giving Scott a hard look.
“No, Canadian—working for a Belgian firm,” Scott said and he saw the man relax a bit. The tension was transferred to Scott, though. Had he done or said something that made the man think he was an American? He’d have to remain on guard against that.
When they were alone and Scott asked Deuir who the man had been, he didn’t really need to be told. He had the first name, Marc. But he’d also been shown a photo before he came here. He had thought it would take time to connect with the man through the pimp lawyer, Austin Deuir, but it happened much faster than had been planned—and he didn’t have to think of a way to get the man’s cock inside him either. That had happened naturally and fortuitously. And it would happen again. Everything was working out.
As he was walking back to his bungalow in Le Marin, it occurred to him that he had gone to Deuir’s office with the lawyer not only to sign a contract but to earn a fee, although he’d been prepared for Deuir to demand service as a sample, and, in his guise as a rent-boy, Scott should have gotten a fee from the man—and from Marc, as well. He had been paid by neither of them. That was no real problem for Scott, though. His plans called for something else entirely, and those plans were moving along nicely. He needed o challenge them on that when he saw them again, though. He had to maintain the character he had established.
* * * *
Scott was showing a group of farmers how a mobile seed sowing machine worked on the slopes of a difficult field on the banks of the Grand Riviére Pilot River near Lordes in the mountains of the island when he saw an old, beat-up pickup truck drive up to the edge of the embankment on the road above the field. Marc Patin climbed out of the truck and stood, leaning into the fender of the vehicle, lighting up a cigarette, and watching the group of men in the field. When he was able, Scott turned the machine over to the leader of the group of the farmers who he’d already shown how to operate the equipment, and slowly climbed up to the road, with what he knew was an enticing swaying of his narrow hips. In the throes of sex, Patin had complimented Scott on his narrow hips, spanning his hands around from Scott’s hips, pressing his thumbs together at the center of Scott’s lower belly and commenting on splitting the difference as he slid his shaft into the young man’s channel—to which Scott had acknowledged in pain-passioned tones that the man was splitting him.
Neither the lawyer, Austin Deuir, nor the man named Marc himself, had told Scott that the man’s name was Marc Patin. But Scott, who the two men thought was a French Canadian named Erik Jouret, already knew the man’s last name. He also knew what the man did and why Scott would be interested in hooking up with him—besides the fact that he had a magnificent body and knew how to use it to give Scott maximum satisfaction.
“That machine doesn’t look like much,” Marc said as Scott reached him. “You, however, look like dynamite.”
“The field isn’t much either,” Scott answered, “but it’s what they’ve got to grow the crops they need to grow on here. Any machine heavier and harder to carry around wouldn’t do the job. The land slopes too much and is too rocky. We match the equipment to the need.”
“Do they need you here still, or will you go with me?”
“They’ll learn to use it faster with one of their own showing them it can be done,” Scott answered. “No matter what else, I would always go with you if you commanded that of me.”
“I’ll take that as agreement to go with me now. Get in the truck.” Almost as an afterthought, he said, “I’m Marc Patin.”
Scott held off from saying he knew that. “I’m Erik. Erik Jouret.”
“Austin told me that. He told me where to find you and that you told him I was a real stud.”
“He tells you everything?” Scott asked. He was happy Deuir had passed that on. The sooner he could hook this guy, the better.
“Get in the fucking truck,” Patin growled. Scott complied.
Patin drove the truck further along the ridgeline dirt road to an isolated grove of trees, where he let the tailgate down and took several lengths of nylon rope out of the truck bed. Holding the rope coils up and looking pointedly at Scott, he said, “What I like to do—”
Giving a shudder, Scott said, “Then do it.”
“You?”
“I like it too. Make me your captive. Take it from me.”
“I wish our local whores were as accommodating,” Patin said as he uncoiled the rope.
Scott stripped and was put down on his back in the truck bed, butt at the edge of the tailgate. His legs were stretched out, tied down to the corners of the truck tail. Scott’s arms were stretched over his head, with his wrists tied off at the center of the back of the truck cab.
“There, does that hurt?” Patin asked.
“A little, yes,” Scott answered.
Patin laughed. “Good.” He stuffed Scott’s mouth with the young man’s own briefs, and, as Scott writhed in the bed of the truck, Patin spanned his hands from the young man’s hips, his thumbs meeting on Scott’s lower belly, and raised Scott’s pelvis to the level of his own. Penetrating Scott’s channel, Patin fucked the shit out of him.
After he was done and had freed the younger man, Patin pulled a couple of bottles of local wine out of the truck cab and, still naked and sharing looks of arousal and approval, the two sprawled under a tree and drank and talked, slowly unwinding hints into their backgrounds and interests—beyond power fucking.
As far as Scott could tell, Patin stayed close to the truth, slowly spinning pieces of his life as a resistance leader living in the mountains of the island and doing would he could to lead short raids into various police stations and military camps with the limited arms and men he could muster. The story Scott wove wasn’t far less truthful and was gauged, in revealing that Scott was in the Caribbean on this job as a retreat from working forms of resistance to authority in Europe, to help Patin more easily to move into admitting to his own insurgent activity and, eventually, to be nudged into discussing the possibility that Scott might help Patin’s movement in some way. They also discussed their shared interest in rough and kinky sex.
“I enjoyed that sex,” Patin said.
“So did I,” Scott affirmed.
“I wish I could—”
“Anything you want,” Scott said.
The sex session ended, after establishing that they’d do it again soon—and maybe discuss their mutual interest in resisting authority more—with Scott standing behind the tailgate of the truck, bent over the truck bed, his arms stretched out at the side and tied off to the rear corners of the truck, while Patin stood behind him, applying lashes of a hand whip until both were whipped up in a frenzy of arousal, upon which Patin mounted Scott from behind, crouching over him, digging his feet into the bed of the truck to maximize leverage, and rode the younger man’s ass hard to another ejaculation.
It was rough, but Scott endured it. Patin obviously was lost to sex this rough, and Scott needed Patin to be lost to him. Scott was almost regretful of his assignment; he easily could be lost to Patin. Scott wouldn’t be in this business if he couldn’t take it rough or didn’t occasionally want it that way.
* * * *
“Almost anything you hear about the army camp on the coast at Le Duprey will be of interest to us. Do you understand, Erik?”
The lawyer, Austin Deuir, and the farm equipment NGO agent, Scott Campbell, going by the name of Erik Jouret and taking on the role of rent-boy on the French-speaking Caribbean island, were sitting on the patio of the beach bar at the Le Marin gay men’s resort, looking out to sea.
“I think so,” Scott said. He knew so, because this had been anticipated, but he didn’t want to come across as experienced at this sort of scheming. He wanted them—Austin and the guerilla leader up in the mountains, Marc Patin—to believe that they had snared a near-innocent to do their bidding.
“Don’t pry too much this first time. Just get the man to want to use you again and make him very comfortable—and chatty, in subsequent sessions.”
“I understand,” Scott answered.
“Do you? I certainly hope you do. Thus far Marc is pleased with you. It is very much in your interest and for the success of your work with the farmers in the mountains for Marc to be pleased with what you’ll do for him—and not just sexually.”
Was there a touch of jealousy in Deuir’s voice? Scott didn’t see the need to assure the man again that he understood, so he just looked down at the hand Austin had on his knee and gave a little smile. He understood that he needed to keep Deuir pleased with him sexually as well. That had, he was confident, been achieved in the room Austin had booked here before they had come to the beach bar to wait for the soldier.
Deuir had taken a room at the resort—and he had taken Scott before they came out to the beach bar to wait. While Austin fucked Scott, he gave him pointers on what the major liked—what he would want Scott to do for him. The major at the army camp near Le Duprey, the base from which most of the insurgent hunting was being done up in the mountains near Lourdes, knew the lawyer as a pimp who procured young men for him when the major had an itch to scratch. Deuir—and, behind him, Patin—wanted more and something different from the major and they were amused that the army officer would be paying them to reveal his secrets to the insurgents via a prostitute provided by the insurgents.
As they watched, a small cabin cruiser craft painted in camouflage appeared from the west around a peninsula jutting out into the sea and steamed up to the gay resort’s pier, not far from the beach bar. A tall, somewhat heavy-set bald man—a biracial, part dark Caribbean and part European white—in camouflage, with heavy, shiny-black combat boots, climbed out onto the pier and, catching sight of Austin Deuir, who had stood up from his chair at the umbrella-covered patio table, stiffly marched in their direction. As he walked, his eyes went to Scott, who belatedly stood as well, and the smile that floated onto the man’s face indicated that Scott passed muster.
“Major Hector Robinson, quite an important man in this region of the island,” Deuir murmured.
Scott didn’t need to be told. Austin had told him enough about who he and Marc wanted Scott to let fuck him for his source to figure out the importance of the army officer—but beyond that he’d already seen photos of the man and read a dossier on what his preferences and kinks were. As soon as Scott had heard a name, he’d messaged it back to CIA Candy Store operatives lurking nearby, and within hours they had provided a dossier on the military officer.
“Une petite européenne blond—A small, blond European,” the major said as he approached.
“I thought you might like a bit of variety,” Deuir answered in French. “This is Erik. He’s French Canadian, but he works for a Belgian service. He’s quite flexible and will give you what you want—what you have told me you preferred.”
“Magnifique.”
Major Robinson turned out not to be magnificent in the looks department—he was ugly of face and heavy, although hard-muscled of body, and only average of endowment—but he was a surprise as a lover. He was of traditional tastes, settling on the missionary position mostly, although they finished with the major on his back and Scott saddled on his hips, leaning over and clasping the officer’s knees as the young man rose and fell on the cock in the cowboy position, and he was as attentive to Scott’s needs and pleasure as to his own.
Still, he was an army officer and he took command, being as interested in exploring Scott’s body with his eyes and hands as he was in fucking the rent-boy. Scott went with what he perceived the man wanted, and he must have guessed correctly, because the major obviously was pleased at the end of the session, made known he wished to engage Scott’s services again, and was chatty enough, even in this first tryst, to have dropped some useful information on the strength, equipment, and deployment of his forces in the insurgent containment operations that Scott was sure Marc Patin would be pleased with taking as the initial results of the tryst the insurgents had set up.
Afterward, when Scott and Deuir were alone and Scott had told him what information on the army camp he had gleaned, Deuir had expressed his pleasure. “Marc will want a report on that immediately.”
“What should I do? How do I make contact?”
“You need do nothing,” Deuir answered. “Marc will contact you.”
What Scott really wanted to know was where Marc and his insurgents were camped out.
* * * *
Patin contacting Scott came sooner and in a more unexpected place than Scott anticipated. Later on the night of Scott’s first hookup with the army camp commander, he answered a knock at the back door of his bungalow on the outskirts of Le Marin to find Marc Patin standing in the shadows, holding the lightbulb from Scott’s back porch. As the man emerged from the chosen darkness, Scott saw that Patin held coils of elastic leads and a small hand whip in the other hand. He handed the still-hot light bulb to Scott as he passed by him, and Scott stood by, almost dumbfounded, as the insurgent chief moved stealthily from room to room, closing drapes and turning off lights. There weren’t many rooms in the bungalow, so the procedure didn’t take all that long.
“Pleasure first,” Patin said. “In the bedroom, I think.” Scott meekly walked toward the bedroom door, only to be surprised by Patin. The insurgent grabbed Scott’s hair, which was let down to cascade to his shoulders, cruelly arched Scott’s head back, and possessed the younger man’s mouth with his. Scott was just in shorts, and Patin quickly kissed and nipped his mouth down into Scott’s throat and then to the younger man’s nipples, which Patin ravished while his free hand roughly felt Scott’s cock and balls up through the thin material of the athletic shorts he was wearing. Scott yelped through his trapped mouth as Patin closed his fingers over Scott’s balls and squeezed.
Patin forced Scott to his knees and presented his cock for sucking. Scott dutifully opened his mouth to the cock and gave the older man head, while Patin leaned over him and secured Scott’s wrists together behind his back with restraints and then did the same to the young man’s ankles.
Before ejaculating, Patin pulled out of Scott’s mouth and raised and snapped down his hand whip again and again, causing a moaning Scott to huddle up on the floor. Pulling Scott back up on his knees, Patin crouched over him, mounted him, penetrated from behind and above, and fucked him the first time right there on the living room floor, near the door into the bedroom.
Although he was bound and could have done nothing to defend himself anyway, Scott gave the insurgent chief everything and anything he wanted. If the plan was to make the man besotted with him and appreciative of Scott’s willingness to take his full sexual fury, the plan was working beautifully.
The muscular, strong biracial man had no trouble picking the bound and moaning small blond up and carrying him into the bedroom. There, he readjusted the bondage, with Scott doing nothing to resist. Scott was unbound, put on his belly on the bed, and then rebound, spread-eagled, at the four corners of the brass head- and foot-boarded bedframe. Pillows were shoved under his belly to raise and roll his ass up for convenient mounting. Patin came up onto the bed, crouched over Scott’s pelvis, penetrated again, and fucked the hell out of the bound captive for a second time, as Scott writhed as best he could under the onslaught, crying out a submissive, “Yes, yes, yes! Fuck my lights out.”
Patin’s want of and obsession for the young blond was obvious. It was just what Scott had wanted.
Stretched out on top of Scott afterward, both men panting heavily from the exertion, Patin placed his lips close to Scott’s ear and said, “Now, I want a full report of your encounter with Major Robinson. Did Austin manage to get photos for blackmail use?”
“Yes, and I found out more,” Scott answered. He proceeded to tell the insurgent chief what he’d gleaned about the army camp and its operations against the insurgents in the mountains above the island coast.
“Good. Meet him again as soon as he wants and find out more.”
“I can help you with more than that,” Scott said.
“Oh? How?”
“You need arms, don’t you?”
“Yes, always. With your help we can get them on a raid of the army camp.”
“I can get them for you more easily than that.”
“How?”
“My Belgian nonprofit, Récole Abondante, isn’t really a nonprofit. We provide more than just farm equipment to the third world. We provide arms as well. I can get your insurgency well armed.”
Patin laughed. “Austin told me that you would be more than an easy and sweet lay.”
* * * *
It was two months later and Major Robinson was still taken enough with Scott’s sexual charms to sail over to the gay male resort near Le Marin from his army camp frequently and to make a regular periodic booking at the resort where he could fuck the young male whore and, unwittingly, pass on valuable information on his anti-insurgent activity in pillow talk.
The major was sitting on the end of the bed and Scott was on his lap, facing him, his knees dug into the mattress on either side of the major’s hips and using them for leverage to rise and fall on the soldier’s cock, while they murmured endearments laced with bits of information on the major’s life and operations. As the fuck got frenzied—nothing kinky, just vigorous, intense fucking by two experienced and fit lovers, all conversation ceased and they panted and moaned the buildup to their mutual release.
And then it came, the army officer releasing deep inside Scott’s passage while, using his expertise and his knowledge of the young man he was fucking, stroking Scott off to an almost simultaneous ejaculation. It was their second fucking of the visit, having come together explosively, and in the cabin of the vessel, as soon as the major’s boat had touched the resort pier and then again, here in the resort bungalow, after having had drinks on the beach bar patio. As they were having drinks, Scott saw that his CIA control officer, Sam Winterberry, the chief of the Agency’s Candy Store unit, was sitting at another table on the patio, and Scott knew that he needed to cut the major’s visit as short as possible.
Scott had come to enjoy the coupling with the army major. The man wasn’t demanding and he was attentive to Scott’s needs, certainly something that neither the lawyer, Austin Deuir, nor the insurgent chief in the mountains, Marc Patin, were—or that the CIA agent Sam Winterberry was, for that matter—not that Scott didn’t enjoy the rougher fuck he got from these men as well. He normally would beg Robinson to stay the night. Sometimes Robinson did. Scott didn’t invite the man to do so this time, though, knowing he had important business to attend to.
When the major was gone, safely back on his boat and steaming back across the bay to his army camp, Sam Winterberry entered the bungalow. Scott, still naked, had returned to the bed and was sitting at the foot of the mattress. Winterberry looked angry when he came into the room, and this proved to be the case. He strode over to the young man, slapping him across the face, first one way and then the other, which made Scott fall back onto the mattress, protectively throwing a protective arm across his face.
“You took your time getting rid of the soldier,” Winterberry growled. “What have I told you about becoming involved with the targets?”
Groaning and saying, “He usually stays the night; I didn’t want to raise his suspicions,” Scott tried to raise up again, but Winterberry punched him in the face, causing him to fall back onto the bed and just lie there, docile, as Winterberry reasserted his control over his agent. His means for doing so was to grab the young man’s ankles and raise and spread Scott’s legs. Unzipped and exposing a long, thick erection, Winterberry crouched between the young man’s legs, thrust forward, penetrating and possessing, and fucked Scott into submission.
Later, when the commander-agent relationship had been solidified again and Scott had reverted to being Scott Campbell, not a French Canadian, but a Vermonter from near the Canadian border, and Winterberry had reported that the shipment of guns Scott would be supplying to the insurgents in the hills had arrived, Scott said, “So, you’ll be pulling me out now after I’ve delivered the arms, and I won’t be seeing the major again either. You’ll see that that’s fine with me.”
“No, we’re not pulling you out for a while, nor do I want you to stop meeting with the major,” Winterberry said. “We want to know more about what both are doing.”
“But it will be a heated war now, won’t it?” Scott asked. “I can’t play both sides, and you’ve sided with the insurgents.”
Winterberry snorted. “No, we haven’t. All of the guns we provided have GPS devices embedded in them. We’ll be able to track where the insurgents are and we can help direct the local army to them. The guns also are programmed not to work for very long. When they begin to stop working and the insurgents start to become suspicious of what they were given, that’s when we’ll pull you out.”
Scott was skeptical of this and started to say something, but the look on Winterberry’s face warned him not to if he didn’t want to get a beatdown again.
Seeing the look on Scott’s face, Winterberry said, “Don’t worry, we’ll pull you out in time. We’re the CIA. We know how to get this done. You’ve proven to be a valuable agent.”
Scott didn’t find that particularly reassuring, but Erik was in the Agency’s Candy Store unit. It didn’t get more elite or at the bottom of the choice spectrum than this for a young, compromised agent like Scott.
What would be would be.