Racing with the Devil

The Ambassador’s Son, Sean Caldwell

I was afraid, yes, when the prince’s son told me to come over to him at the bed in the palace’s pool house. I wasn’t afraid because he was going to fuck me, but because he was pulling restraints down from the frame above the posts at the four corners of the bed. I was going to be bound and at his mercy while he fucked me—while he did whatever he wanted with me. I wasn’t sure of him—whether he was sure of me, and he needed to be sure of me. That’s why I’d put myself in this position.

I recognized that this was all part of the testing. I had been vouched for, but for what Amir el-Basir wanted me to do for him—for his cause—I could accept that he would want to test me for himself.

“Come, come to me,” he said again, gently, giving me a calm look with those dark eyes of his. He was a handsome man. I could see the resemblance—that they were cousins. A great body and a cock that took my breath away. Soon, very soon, that cock would be inside me, with me bound and not in a position to deny Amir anything. I steeled myself. I had known what I was getting into.

* * * *

“Come, come to me.” Josef had said it as well. His eyes had been as dark and inviting. It was my third visit to his apartment—ostensibly to study Arabic—at Stanford. He was the professor in my Muslim studies class and had offered to tutor me in Arabic. My father had recently been appointed to an ambassadorship in a Gulf emirate, which wasn’t important for its size or even its wealth but for the lake of oil it was floating on. But I was interested in the Middle East even before that, and also sympathetic with the plight of the Muslims of the world and of how much they were being misunderstood in the West of late. I had gone to great lengths to voice this position on campus and had gravitated to the handsome professor, Josef Garfeh, as much as he eventually told me he had gravitated to me.

We were sitting close together on a divan laden with pillows covered by native crafts in the living room of his apartment at Stanford, a brass table in front of us. And an opium water pipe—a hookah—on the table. Josef was teaching me much more of Muslim life and culture than my courses at the university were. We were both wearing a white dishdasha, the robes of the men of the Middle East—and nothing else. He had one arm around me. The other had unbuttoned the top of the dishdasha down to my waist and had moved inside and cupped one of my nipples while we first kissed. We pulled away from the kiss for each of us to take a drag on the hookah. I had just inhaled the smoke when he covered my mouth with his again to hold the smoke in. His free hand had gone under the hem of the dishdasha and glided up my thigh as I shuddered at his touch. He ran his fingers through my pubic thatch. His other hand was at the back of my head, his fingers running through my blond curls.

I knew we would fuck. That was fine with me. Josef had made clear that if I came to him for the third time, if I wore a dishdasha and nothing else for him, and if I joined him in smoking the hookah, we would fuck.

“Are you that way all over?” he murmured.

“What way?” My words sounded thick and from a distance to me. I was aware enough to know it was the opium, although I had inhaled very little. I was more interested in the fuck. I wanted to be fully aware of him fucking me.

“Blond. Are you a natural blond, or do you just color your head hair?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” I whispered dreamily.

And he moved down my body while his hand unbuttoned the dishdasha all of the way and brushed it off my now-naked body. I stretched my body, moaned, and arched my back as his tongue went up one side of my hard cock and down the other, traveled up through the blond, curly hair of my thatch to my belly and rimmed my navel before moving back down for his mouth to cover and descend on my cock. He grabbed my buttocks with his hands and lifted and spread them, and I grabbed for his head, running my fingers through his black, silky hair, and groaned to the ceiling as his mouth moved up and down on the cock, faster and faster.

I cried out and dug my fingers deep in the hair on the back of his head, as his hands covered and spread my butt cheeks and greased index fingers found my rim on either side and then pressed in and in, opening me up and stretching me, rhythmically moving in a fast vibrating motion that had me writhing under him, nonsensically crying out “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as his mouth joined the rhythm of the fingers drumming and pulling.

Crying out for mercy for him to slow down, but receiving none. Warning him in no uncertain terms I was going to come. And then I did, down his throat.

I fell back deep into the pillows, exhausted and spent. Josef stood, between my thighs, and looking down at me, with a lazy smile. I lay there, panting, and watching him through an opiate haze as he rolled a condom on his cock, raised my left leg and placed my ankle on his shoulder, and took my right ankle in his left hand and raised and spread my legs. I watched him grasp his engorged, sheathed cock in his right hand and move it down. And then I felt the bulb at my entrance. All the time, he was looking down into my face, smiling slightly, and holding my eyes in thrall with his. His eyes were mesmerizing.

I jerked slightly and gave a little grunt as I felt the bulb enter me. I’d been well opened, though, and I drew in my breath and held it as he slid inside, deep. I almost passed out in forgetting to breathe as he grasped my right ankle and raised that leg and spread it wide, like the left. I moaned at the feel of his throbbing cock buried deep inside me and began to pant heavily. He leaned his torso down, almost touching mine, his eyes boring into mine. And then he started to pump hard, fast, deep, and I gasped and writhed under him, both loving it and afraid of it—afraid of the hold he was casting over me.

Afraid of what he’d want from me, even though this was exactly what I wanted from him.

“Blond all over,” He murmured afterward as we lay in each other’s arms. “My cousin will love that.”

“Your cousin?” I asked. The fear returning to me, but knowing this was what we had been building to—what I had been working to as well.

“We’ve discussed this. You have expressed interest in this. The excitement, the making a difference, a statement. I have seen in you the desire to race with the devil. I don’t think I was mistaken.”

“No, you weren’t mistaken,” I answered, turning my head away from him so that he wouldn’t see the uncertainty of the smile I couldn’t suppress. There was his definition of the devil, but that wasn’t necessarily everyone’s definition. And in the difference of opinion, there was great danger.

* * * *

Amir sounded so much like Josef when he said “Come, come to me.” That was natural, of course, because they were cousins. And I’d come to visit my father because they were. My father and I weren’t really that close. He just was in the right place at the right time for the plans I had been included in.

“Strip your clothes off,” Amir said when I was standing just a few feet from him, and then, when I did, he, like Josef, smiled and said, “A true blond. I love blonds.”

“So I’ve heard,” I murmured, as he reached out and drew me to him, his lips going to my belly, his tongue rimming my navel, and then moving down, through the blond of my pubic thatch and onto my cock. Just like Josef. Also like Josef, he held me there, inhaling the smell of my pubes. Pressing on my belly, he coaxed me to bend over backwards, my arms dangling toward the floor, my pelvis jutting out to his searching lips and teeth. Then he was sucking on my cock and fingering my ass, preparing me for his cock, until, with a shudder I came in his throat. He pulled me down into his lap and onto his cock, facing him, and he tongued and chewed on my nipples, as, my arms flung back, my hands grasping his knees, and leveraging off my calves, bent under my thighs, I began rising and falling, riding his cock to his ejaculation.

We lay on the bed in the pool house, in a close embrace, as I looked at the restraints dangling down at the four corners of the bed with some apprehension and he quizzed me about how much I knew about why I was there and worked his way into what I needed to do for him to assure him of my loyalty. He used the same term Josef had, of being willing to race with the devil wherever it took me—at his command—no matter the consequences.

He pointed out the restraints then and I shuddered again but reassured him that I understood I had to prove myself to him. That’s when he asked me if I’d ever been doubled, and I needed for him to tell me what that meant. I trembled again when he said it wasn’t just taking a dick at both ends but taking it in the ass from two men, both at the same time. I didn’t answer him straight away, but he asked me again in a way that told me he was testing me—seeing whether I was going to give over all control to him, no matter what. I told him I hadn’t been doubled—in any definition of the term—but, of course, if that’s what he wanted me to do, I’d do it.

I didn’t, in a million years, think he was serious about that.

I meekly let him restrain my ankles and wrists in a loose spread-eagle position, facing down, and then he wriggled in underneath me and I straddled him again and lowered myself on his cock.

I was lost in the fuck when the other man arrived and only was half aware of Amir inviting him to join us—to enter me from behind on top of Amir’s buried cock. I gasped in surprise and writhed in pain as he slowly pushed his cock in. Turning my head to his face, my surprise was reflected in his face. I recognized him as the oil company executive, Tyler Haskell, the husband of one of the embassy’s political officers—who I knew really was the CIA chief of station in the country. And it was obvious that he only now recognized me as the ambassador’s son. I was in shock—and pain, although also experiencing the pleasure of a whole new, arousing sensation—but I was here for a purpose. And I was being tested. I turned a welcoming smile to Haskell, and he settled down to matching the rhythm in a counterpistoning inside me with Amir’s cock. I did what I could to release the tension in my body, in my channel, so that I could handle both cocks at once.

Abruptly, Haskell separated from us. I stole a look over at where he’d gone—to the corner of the pool terrace, where the entrance from the car park inside the palace compound was. At the same time, I did what I could to make Amir believe I was fully absorbed in the continued churning of his cock inside me as he released me from the restraints only to turn me on my back, bind my wrists once more, wishbone my legs, and return to fucking me.

I suppressed a gasp of surprise when I saw that Haskell, standing next to one of Amir’s guards, was talking to a young blond man who was very agitated and whose clothes were smeared with blood—and who remarkably resembled me. I recognized him, but it took me a few moments to identify who he was. It was Chris Carter, one of the U.S. embassy logistics officers. But if he was Carter, he must be part of all of this, as much a part of Josef and Amir’s plan as I was. As Haskell must be too, it suddenly struck me.

How big was this operation? How deeply did this racing with Josef’s perception of the devil penetrate the fabric of American government and business? All questions I would need to contemplate—but not just now. I could feel Amir’s ejaculation approaching and so was mine.

I could ask him about Haskell and Carter later—although now, when I looked around, I saw that both had vanished. And, no, I couldn’t ask Amir about them. If he wanted me to know about them, he’d tell me. What he was doing to me now, as I was trussed up and sheathing his cock, told me that I was here to follow his instructions, not to ask him questions about the operation.