Juan Carlos

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

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I was at Cambridge in the mid-thirties.  Modesty aside, I was handsome, very blond and blue-eyed, with milky white skin, and a rugby-player's build.  As the decade progressed, friends would quip that if I were German, I would likely feature on an SS recruiting poster; the very model of the Aryan Übermensch.

Consequently, I didn't want for attention.  Unfortunately, my build suggested that I was dominant.  The men I met would expect - and want - me to take charge, while I wanted nothing but to submit.

That was until I met Juan Carlos Miranda. An exotic addition to the university social scene, he was the son of a senior Argentine army officer, sent to Cambridge to get a first class education.  He was sleekly masculine, with blue-black hair, mustache and goatee.  He carried himself with a marshal bearing, and a strutting, Latin arrogance, which his looks allowed him to get away with completely.  Men and women fawned on him in equal measure.  I suspect even some of the otherwise heterosexual men may have willingly bent over for him.

We met at a social function, and he invited himself back to my rooms.  There was never any question of who would dominate whom.  He was in command at all times, and I reveled in relinquishing control to him.  First my mouth, then my channel surrendered to him.  I'd never been taken in this way before, and had always wanted to be.  Writhing in pleasure on my back, I thrilled at the black hair across his abdomen undulating as he worked himself in and out of me.   His smile as he took me was smug, and arrogant, and knowing.  He owned me, and would have his way.  Juan Carlos came in a pounding climax, that had me moaning uncontrollably.  He kissed me deeply, and fondled my nipples, as I masturbated to my own ejaculation, gushing in reaction to his immensely satisfying taking.

Juan Carlos became a regular visitor to my rooms, though I never saw his.  His debauching of me grew progressively rougher.  He would jerk my head back with a handful of my hair as he took me on all fours.  Upright on our knees, him pressed against my back, he would hold his hand over my mouth, and enjoy my muffled moans of pain-pleasure as he twisted my nipples.  I found I particularly liked being on my back, his long and girthy cock deep inside me.  He would choke me, or slap me sharply across the face.  Or both simultaneously. 

Juan Carlos was always the man. He would not use his mouth on my dick or arse, but I was expected to perform any supplication.  I suppose his Latin machismo meant that he remained a man so long as he took the dominant role. That was fine by me.  No lover had ever brought me such gratification.  

Unlike the others, Juan Carlos seemed to love the juxtaposition of my brawny manliness and total submission. Our sex was punctuated with him calling me his Puta, and other Spanish epithets.  I enjoyed this form of dominance as well.  I liked being his whore, and his cocky, brutal defilement of me.

I knew he did not - could not - love me.  I had to satisfy myself with the knowledge that he seemed to visit me more often than any of the others who received him.  He also spent his final night in Cambridge with me, before returning to Buenos Aires.  Juan Carlos was particularly violent that night.  By the time he had finished with me, I was battered and completely spent.  His kisses afterward were lingering and gentle, and his fondling actually included him masturbating me to my climax.  I took all this as an indication that he cared more than he would allow himself to admit.

Life went on in his absence.  I frequently thought wistfully about Juan Carlos, and returned to less pleasing sexual encounters, with lesser men.  The newspapers were full of the rising tensions in Europe and East Asia, so I only came across news of a coup in the Argentine in one of the inner pages.  Coups were increasingly common in Argentina at the time, and weren't front page news.  It was a surprise to read that Juan Carlos's father had lead this coup, and was now President. There was no mention of Juan Carlos.

After university, my father began introducing me to our businesses, grooming me as his successor.  He was planning a trip to South America, and suggested I accompany him, to familiarise myself with our interests there.  I also gathered my parents considered Uruguay or Argentina potential safe havens for me to sit out the looming European war.  For my part, I wondered wistfully if my path and that of Juan Carlos might cross.

We'd been in Buenos Aires only a night.  My father had left for an appointment, and I was alone in our luxurious suite, when there was a knock at the door.  I drew a sharp breath when I opened the it to find Juan Carlos, resplendent in a be-medaled military uniform, standing before me.  He was as handsome and sexually exciting as ever.

He marched into the room, flicking the door closed behind him, and in moments I was held firmly in his arms, his tongue deep in my mouth.  Before I knew it, he was taking me on the sofa, both of us still mostly clothed.  On my side, with him driving into me, one hand jerked my head back with a handful of my hair, and the other clouted me across the face.

"Puta," was the first word Juan Carlos spoke.

"I thought you'd forgotten me," I breathed, hoping I didn't sound too needy.

"You are mine," he said, enigmatically.

That first fuck was urgent, and he quickly spent himself inside me.  He was soon recharged however.  We repaired to my bedroom, and he took me again.  Fully naked, we laid on our sides, Juan Carlos spooning me from behind,  While he plowed my hole, his right hand reached around and pinched and tweaked my nipples.  My moans of pain-pleasure were muffled as his left arm snaked under me, and that hand was pressed firmly over my mouth.

By the time my father returned, we were weary, but bathed and looking every bit gentlemen friends, taking afternoon tea.  My father was delighted I had an old university chum as a potentially lucrative contact in the government, and encouraged me to spend time with Juan Carlos, and cultivate his friendship.  I needed little encouragement.

Juan Carlos became my tour guide, showing me the sites and charms of the Argentine capital, and introducing me to Buenos Aires' society.

At one of his father's functions, I encountered a young actress, immaculately dressed and coiffed, with platinum blond hair, on the arm of a junior army officer.  She flirted skillfully - and shamelessly - with Juan Carlos, but he was immune to her advances.  She glanced speculatively at me, and as she moved away, I'm sure I heard her perceptive aside to the officer on her arm, "Maricon."

"Eva Duarte," Juan Carlos explained to me, once she was gone.  And with disdain, "Social climber."

Years later, just after the war, it didn't really come as a surprise, when I read the social climbing actress, now Eva Peron, had become first lady.  I could say, I knew her when...

Juan Carlos had his way with me at every opportunity.  However, It wasn't easy to find inconspicuous times and places for him to debauch me.  He also became concerned that we were being seen together a little too often.  To solve both problems, he invited me to his family estate in the country.  Other than the servants and the labourers, we would be the only ones at the ranch.  We would have to be discrete during the day, but at night, we would be alone in the house.

I was thrilled at the prospect.  My father was even more delighted that I was establishing such cordial relations with the ruling family, and sent me off with his blessing.

The servants at the ranch must have thought us idle and lazy.  We spent our days languidly drinking, listening to music, and talking, gazing out over the sweeping pampas, and occasionally dozing in the warm sun.  Little did they know that our indolence was born of sleepless nights, Juan Carlos fucking me as long as his stamina held out.  He was a very fit, virile, and voracious man, so we lost little time in sleep.

When darkness lowered, and the servants retired to their remote quarters, Juan Carlos would come to my room.  I discovered he had developed a new predilection since our university days.  I don't think he took me once at the ranch without me being bound in some position or other.  Ropes, leather straps, belts, and so on, were employed to immobilise me.  He told me he enjoyed my helplessness.  I found I also enjoyed my helplessness.

That first night at the ranch, my hands were bound to the headboard, my ankles on his shoulders. He slapped and choked me, as his cock drove deeply, and powerfully into me.  Later that night, I was spread-eagled,each limb tied to a a different corner of the bed.  This time, I was gagged with a knotted handkerchief, tied around my head, a pillow under my stomach to present my arse. He pounded me with a rolling onslaught that seemed to go on forever.  I didn't want it to end.

Juan Carlos would ultimately make use of most of the furniture in the room.  I would be on my back at the foot of the bed, my ankles shackled high up on the posts to raise my arse to an accessible height, my hands stretched out over me, and tied to the headboard. Or I'd be doubled over a chair, ankles and wrists bound to the legs.  At other times, I was able to look out over the pampus, when he bound my hands behind me, and lashed me down to a small table.  He would force my back to arch, pulling my head back by my hair, while he pistoned into me.  

I think my favourite position was on the settee.  Juan Carlos would lay me on my back in the centre, my head pressed forward by the seat back.  Each wrist tied to its respective ankle, they would then be tied over the back of the sofa to its rear legs.  I was effectively held down, and spread wide, and he would take to one knee to fuck me.  He would run his hands through my chest hair gently, then suddenly twist my nipples to hear me moan through the gag.  In this position, I got to watch him take me, a magnificent thoroughbred of a man at the height of his power, taking his pleasure in me.

I continued to enjoy his roughness.  He would slap and choke me, and I particularly thrilled to his brutal working of my nipples.  He seemed to intuit the line up to which I could be taken, and did not cross it.  The bondage and violence were perversely an incredible intimacy between us.  We were making love.  My complete surrender was my gift to him, and his domination was his gift to me.

I was in thrall to this imposing man, and I believe he loved me, in his way.  I didn't want our time at the ranch to end.  If there was to be a war, I would happily spend it at the ranch, bound for Juan Carlos's pleasure.

Unfortunately, our rural idle came to an abrupt end.  We were lazing on the terrace, when a couple of army lorries pulled up to the house.  Soldiers emerged from the back and fanned out, and a handsome, young lieutenant got out of one of the passenger seats, and hurried towards us.

Juan Carlos tensed the moment the trucks appeared, and had taken to his feet before the lieutenant reached us,

"Captain Miranda," the lieutenant was urgent and breathless. "There has been an attempted coup.  Your father sent me to take you to safety."

"Why didn't he send Lopez?" Juan Carlos was wary.  His tone brought home to me the uncertainty of the situation.

"I was closer," the lieutenant responded.  "And time is of the essence."

"What is the code word?" Juan Carlos challenged.

The lieutenant hesitated momentarily.  This was all the answer Juan Carlos needed, and he made to bolt toward the house.  Before he could move though, the lieutenant whipped out his pistol, and aimed it squarely at him.

We were loaded into one of the lorries, pressed deep within the squad of soldiers, and drove for several hours.  Juan Carlos and I were facing each other but were silenced whenever we attempted to speak.

Eventually, we stopped and were debarked into what looked to be an army garage.  Juan Carlos was tied to a chair by ankles and wrists, and his mouth gagged with a bandanna.  My hands were cuffed behind me, and I was bent over and tied front down to a table, facing Juan Carlos, before also being gagged.

The young lieutenant strutted into view, and bent down to speak into Juan Carlos's ear.  "We know all about your English whore," he said, looking pointedly at me.

Juan Carlos's eyes widened momentarily before his neutral stoicism reasserted itself.  The lieutenant wasn't fooled however.  He watched Juan Carlos closely as he walked toward me, undoing his fly and fishing out his dick.  Suddenly, hands gripped my waist, and a cock was shoved into my unprepared arse.  I screamed through the gag, and saw Juan Carlos tense against his restraints.  He knew there was nothing he could do though, and attempted not to allow his distress to show. But I could see, and I loved him for it.

The lieutenant pounded me to a quick ejaculation.  As he walked back into view, tucking in his shirt, he jerked his chin toward the soldiers behind me.  Over the next hour, or more, I was raped by every soldier in the squad, one after another.  It was not lost on me that I had been restrained and taken in a ghastly parody of the love-making I had shared with Juan Carlos.  We had obviously not been as discrete as we'd imagined.

By the time the squad were finished brutalising me, I was bruised and limp, slumped on the table.  I wasn't quite aware of being loaded back onto the lorry, though I caught an occasional glimpse of Juan Carlos's agitated face as we were jostled along.

The lorry stopped somewhere.  My handcuffs were removed, and I was literally dumped out the back onto the road.  The lorry pulled away, and I managed to raise my head.  Juan Carlos looked back, his face a picture of distress and concern.  

The lorry disappeared round a corner, and I was alone.  I looked around, a little dazed.  I was on the street in front of my hotel in Buenos Aires.  There weren't many people on the street, presumably because of the political unrest, and those who were, studiously ignored me.

I staggered into the hotel, and up to my suite.  My father was beside himself to see me alive.  I gave him an judiciously edited version of what had happened.  He wasted no time booking the first passage out of Argentina he could find.  We sailed to New York, and almost immediately, transferred to RMS Aquitania for the voyage home.

I was distraught at what might have become of Juan Carlos, though my father took my ennui as a reaction to my ordeal.  Finally, half way across the Atlantic, another passenger lent me the newspaper he'd brought on board, and I found an article about the coup.  It had succeeded, and Argentina had a new President.  Now ex-President Miranda had fled into exile in Uruguay.  I nearly cried with relief to see Juan Carlos's name amongst the list of family members who had accompanied him to Montevideo.  He was safe.

It was only months after our arrival home before war came to Europe, and the exigencies of the conflict restricted travel and communication.  I was called to duty, fortunately spending the war as an adjutant to a staff officer in London.  The blitz was the greatest danger I faced.

I thought often about Juan Carlos, and what he was doing, though could find out no more.

In 1941, I met Piotr, a handsome and dashing Polish pilot, in exile from his conquered homeland. He was flying with the RAF.  Whenever he got up to London, he would roger me with a powerful, eastern European earnestness, manhandling me to our mutual satisfaction.  But he wasn't Juan Carlos.  In 1944, Piotr flew a bombing raid over Dusseldorf, and didn't return.

After the war, I was deployed to the devastated Berlin, as part of the occupation government of the British zone.  Jeremy, a boyish American lieutenant, unaffectedly masculine, and rough in his enthusiasm, fucked me regularly, and vigorously to our mutual satisfaction.  But he wasn't Juan Carlos.  Jeremy was deployed to somewhere called Korea years later.  He would not return from the fight against communist tyranny there in 1950.

And Juan Carlos? When the social climbing actress became first lady of Argentina in 1946, I was inspired to contact him.  Unfortunately, my researches found he had survived the coup, only to die in a car accident in 1943.  That fleeting glimpse of his distressed face as he was taken away in the truck, was the last time I would ever see him.

I would have other loves over the years, but never one so intense as what I'd shared with Juan Carlos.