Spy? The man at the lectern was saying that my father had been an intelligence agent. I knew what an intelligence agent was. It was a spy. And I’d never even suspected that my father had been one of those. I figured he’d been something more than just a sportsman and dilettante, but I hadn’t given that much thought to it. Both of my parents had been flitting off someplace or other most of the time–and rarely together. I just hadn’t given it a thought. Someone’s funeral was sort of a bad time to learn that he had been a spy–especially when that someone was your father.
I guess that went part way to explain how and why he had been murdered in Tunis.
I looked around the cold interior of the large stone church in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. No one else seemed surprised that the man at the lectern, a distinguished English appearing and speaking, gentleman, a trim man in his early fifties, was talking of my father as a sacrificing public servant who had traveled into the jaws of danger again and again all over the world to serve and protect the United States.
There was a brief moment when I had the surreal feeling that I’d walked into the wrong funeral.
My mother, sitting beside me on the front pew of the church, didn’t look surprised, certainly. She didn’t look all that proud or grief-stricken either. She looked more distracted and separated from it all. It was probably a good defense mechanism in this instance. I don’t think she loved my father, but she certainly liked him well enough. I don’t think she loved any of the men I’d seen her with. But she used them all happily enough.
A spy was he? My attention was taken again by the man at the lectern, who seemed to be talking directly to me. The name “Griffin”–my father’s name–had arrested my attention. It was my name too, although I went by Grif to distinguish the two. Not that my dad and I had needed to be distinguished between often. We had rarely been in the same room together over the course of my life. I thought over the presents he used to bring home to me, realizing now that they weren’t the usual stateside fare. They were always something foreign and exotic. But, whereas I had been based in the Wilmington area as I grew up, my parents always seemed to be at one of their other houses in some other country.
And now I lived nearly full time in New Haven anyway, at Yale University, where I stuffed my nonacademic life with water sports–making sure that there was rowing or yachting or something that kept me from coming home for the summers to Wilmington, Delaware. I had grown tired of the attention and groveling in Wilmington where my mother, as a Dupont, was a natural center of attention–when she wasn’t flitting off to Florida or California or Europe herself.
I supposed I’d have to stick around now for a couple of weeks–until the fawning crowd thinned out. My mother wouldn’t like to do the “mourning family” routine anymore than I would, but she was a Dupont. She knew her duties in the social circles here. They certainly were fawning over us at the service. Both my mother and me. Because of my own proclivities, I could separate the men on their preferences. Most were paying court to my mother–and I wondered how soon my father’s official place would be taken up by another man. With her Dupont billions, I doubted it would be long. Not that my mother needed to have a husband to have her itches scratched. Then there were the few men who kept their eyes on me. I knew what they wanted.
The man at the lectern was looking at me in that way. Well, let him. I didn’t mind that sort of attention. Thinking of my father and Tunis made me think of my life at Yale. Another mystery solved, perhaps. My father had guided me into the area of international relations studies. My own interests were in swimming and boating, but I wasn’t so dumb I didn’t realize that I needed to major in more than that at Yale. I had fallen into the international area studies as suggested, without even giving a thought to how it fit into what my father was doing in life. And looking at my mother and how she was drifting into another world to survive this tedious funeral service, I did that too.
My thoughts went back to Yale. To the private tutoring session I was having with my South Asian studies professor shortly before being called home because my father had been murdered somewhere in Northern Africa. I hadn’t even looked Tunisia up on the map yet. My studies were geared more to East and South Asia.
Professor Gupta and I were both sitting lotus style on a platform bed in his house, me sitting, facing the tall, thin, well- although spare-muscled, berry-brown Indian’s chest. Sitting bare torso to bare torso with him, on his crossed legs, my heels pressing into his buttocks, while, at his murmured instructions I moved my channel, forward and back, revolving, on his thin but snake-long upward-curved cock. He was holding me with his hands under my arm pits, I was leaning forward, our foreheads touching, my eyes caught with his. His eyes were so expressive. They held mine in thrall. He was a handsome man, but I had not expected in my wildest dreams that we’d ever be positioned thus.
I entered South Asian studies with an aversion to everything having to do with the Indian subcontinent. I much preferred Chinese studies. I thought of Indians–the Indians of the subcontinent–as weak and weak minded and irritatingly obsequious. I didn’t like their philosophies or their willingness just to put up with and bend to natural calamity and conditions.
And yet, here I was, sitting on the cock of a wiry, middle-aged Indian man, a man with mesmerizing eyes, and long, thin fingers that made me sizzle at his touch, and a long, thin, snake-like cock that had invaded far up into my ass canal, the bulb pressing and rubbing against my sensitive inner walls, making love to me deep inside and causing the muscles of my walls to contract and expand and shimmer to his touch.
Gupta pushed my torso away from him and down toward the foot of the platform bed, where his handholds under my arm pits were replaced by those of Khurana, his younger, meatier assistant. Gupta’s hands went to gripping my waist and pulling me back and forth, deeper onto his cock, then not as deep, and then deeper again.
Khurana released his grip under my armpit at one side to untie the knot on his dhoti, the white cotton skirt draped around his loins. As his hand returned to its prior position, the dhoti drifted to his dark-brown feet and my head lowered over the foot of the bed. Crouching a bit, Khurana presented a plump, already-hard cock, and I took it in my mouth. Just opening to it, making a wide O shape, with my tongue flattening to the floor of my mouth, giving it a good angle for Khurana’s cock to invade along my tongue and into my throat. And to slowly move in and out.
He leaned his torso over mine, and took my cock in his mouth as well, as I fought not to gag as deeply as his cock was penetrating into my throat.
Showing admirable control, neither of them came before I did. When I had, in Khurana’s throat, he withdrew. Gupta moved his hands up my sides and drew my torso up to his. He didn’t stop in the position we’d started in, though. He continued lowering his back onto the surface of the platform bed, pulling my buttocks up with him.
Khurana moved up the bed on his knees, behind us, and I felt him positioning his cock head at my hole, still pierced by Gupta’s long, thin snake of a cock. I groaned and squirmed as Khurana’s cock entered me, on top of Gupta’s. My squirming helped to seat his cock inside me, though. His arms embraced my torso and arched it up into his chest. Gupta’s hands already were fanned on my pecs. Khurana’s palms covered Gupta’s hands.
And then Khurana began to plow me, his cockhead moving ever deeper inside me along the top of Gupta’s throbbing cock, sinking toward, but with little chance of success to sink deep enough kiss Gupta’s cockhead with his own.{Reword}
“And so, it’s with the greatest appreciation and affection that we commend a worthy Brother Griffin to his maker.”
The name brought me back into the church. The distinguished-looking man was coming down from the lectern and the strains of “Amazing Grace” were rising from the organ. The man had his eyes firmly planted on me all the time he was returning to his pew on the other side of the aisle from where my mother and I were seated
And then in a flurry–an excruciating length of time for a flurry–the service was winding down and we were exiting the front doors of the church behind the coffin that was being carried down the stone stairs and into the back of the black hearse.
Already the man–Henry Holden, I’d been told when we were introduced in the family room before the service–was there at my mother’s side, guiding her with a big mitt on her elbow. He was an oversized, muscular, florid-complexioned, red-headed man. Ruggedly handsome. My mother seemed impressed with his attentions. My mother was easily impressed by hunky man flesh.
And at my other side now, joining me where we had been stopped on the front steps of the church while they loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, appeared the man from behind the lectern.
“My name is Tyler, Tyler Weston,” he murmured to me, as he leaned into me. “I was your father’s supervisor. Please accept my sincere condolences.”
What I thought was more sincere was the hand he had placed possessively on the small of my back, his fingers pressing down at the top of my butt crack. I sensed that we both were thinking that he was just inches from the rim of my asshole. He was as handsome up close as he had been at the distant lectern. He was elegantly and expensively dressed, the handsome face with graying sideburns on a precisely cut head of dark hair. Tall and lean. His voice was smooth and had a slight hint of the British in it, which my professors at Yale liked to affect as well. Quite the smooth character. And his eyes boring into mine, seemingly trying to convey so much more than his words did.
“Your father was a valuable asset to the nation’s work,” he murmured. “Here is my card–giving my home address and telephone number. Please take it, and don’t hesitate to call upon me for any solace or comfort I can give you.”
For the briefest moment his middle finger descendent further down my crack, positioning itself at my entrance, veiled only by the material of my trousers and briefs. I clearly understood what solace and comfort he was offering.
And then, appearing very polite and proper, he glided away from me so that we could move to the limousine idling behind the hearse. its back door now closed. The word “comfort” and the expression in Weston’s eyes remained with me for the rest of the grueling afternoon under the hot sun at the cemetery on the banks of the Christiana River. It lingered as the limousine drove back into the city for the reception at the Dupont Hotel.
* * * *
I pulled the Westsail 32, the largest of the family sailboats I could handle by myself, up to the dock, tied it up, jumped over the gunwale onto the dock, and climbed the stairs rising up the bluff of our summer property, Clifftop, at the top of the Chesapeake Bay near Elkton, Maryland. As I rose to the top of the stairs I paused to watch Toby pulling weeds in the border gardens surrounding the dining room of the house, which was all windows on three sides and jutted out toward the edge of the cliff.
My mother had lasted only three days at the Wilmington house, receiving visitors who hardly knew what my father had looked like feigning their grief. That didn’t mean that it wasn’t good of them to come. And they missed out on my father. He had the blond, perennially hunky good looks of a movie star. That, of course, was why my mother had married him. All of the money was on her side of the family, which was balanced quite well with his looks, Yale pedigree, and casual elegance on polo ground and in concert hall alike.
We had moved a world away to Clifftop, while still being almost in the outskirts of Wilmington. We hadn’t lost everyone buzzing around us in Wilmington, either. Henry Holden was here too, and there was no pretense that he and mother weren’t sharing the master bedroom. There was just one bedroom between theirs and mine in a wing that jutted out from the central rooms on the opposite side from the dining room and kitchen wing.
I loved this house and was glad we’d come here–even beyond the move having put us on the water, where I could sail out into the bay by myself and be alone with my thoughts. The thoughts now included the death–the murder–of my father. I had just accepted it before as something that would befall a rich tourist traveling to out-of-way exotic places. But now, knowing he was a spy, murder took on a whole new meaning for me. I wondered if he was traveling in Tunisia as a tourist or on assignment. I couldn’t help mulling that over in my mind.
My mother and Holden were on the screened porch at the center of the house, overlooking the bay. The house had originally been built as a rambling Victorian board-and-batten wood building, painted tree-trunk brown, with soaring ceilings and exposed beams inside and hulking stone fireplaces. The central living room rose two stories and there was a library loft at the bay end with two stories of large screened porches off that end. The upper screened porch was designed as a summer sleeping porch, and I had often used it that way. On the right at the entrance into the living room, a hallway went off that led to three bedrooms, the large master bedroom at the end, on the bay side of the wing.
Each bedroom had its own bath. Off to the left of the living room was the dining room jutting out at an angle toward the bay and always sunny and cheery because of the windows on all three sides. On the land side of the dining room were the large kitchen, pantry, and laundry. A staircase in the pantry led up to two small servants rooms above and a shared bath. We had no live-in servants here now. Just Tania, the black cook; her son, Toby, who did the gardening; and a handyman, Seth. Tania and Toby lived inland on the road to Elkton. Seth, who served as handyman and chauffeur, as needed, lived over the detached three-car garage across the parking area from the main entrance.
All smaller, less formal, less staffed than any of our other homes–which was why it was my favorite. It was the only house of ours I wanted to have, not the least because of the long dock below the bluff with the boathouse and the collection of sailboats.
My gaze moved away from Toby, a muscular black beauty some five years older than I am, who, only in shorts, moved with grace and glistening muscles in the flower bed, to the first-floor screened porch. Having seen me shift my eyes to them, my mother and Hal–as she called him–moved farther away from each other on a rattan glider. They were only shadows on the porch to me, though, so the adjustment seemed needless. I heard them in the master bedroom in the night. I knew he was giving her a good fucking. She and her men hadn’t surprised me for some years. She had made little pretense of covering it when my father was away, and the two of them seemed so distant from each other when they were together that I’d given up caring years ago.
I turned my eyes back on Toby, who had seen me now and had stood up straight, full frontal to me, looking at me under hooded eyes, and licking his puffy lips. Toby was another reason why I loved coming to Clifftop. His hand went to his crotch, promising a good time to be had later.
I turned, with a sigh, and moved to the door into the screened porch. I didn’t want to appear inhospitable. I really didn’t give a fuck that my mother was being poked again only three days after my father’s funeral. And Hal was great to look at anyway.
“We thought it was late enough to start the gin and tonics,” my mother said cheerily, as I entered the screened porch. “Help yourself.”
I went over to the bar, poured myself a drink, and sat down in one of the rattan armchairs across from the glider. My mother was in a diaphanous something or other and Hal was just in tennis shorts. My mother had that “just been satisfied” glow about her, and Hal, leaning over with legs spread wide and elbows on knees, had that “it’s already mine” look about him. I had news for him, though. This house was already legally encumbered as mine, and I didn’t care what other booty he made off with before my mother dropped him.
“Was the sailing good, honey?” my mother asked.
“Yes, very good,” I answered.
“That’s not a small boat,” Hal said. “You sure you can handle it all by yourself?”
“I’ve been doing so since junior high,” I answered. “Yes, I can handle it.”
“As big as you can manage, I guess,” Hal said. He was giving me “that” look. I gave him a second look now, with the possibility that he swung both ways. I liked what I saw. He was as old as my father had been. But big. Not fat big. Big boned, tall, broad shouldered, heavily muscled big. And a bit hairy. It was a reddish-blond hairy, though–wavy on his head, five-O’clock shadow on his face, and curly on his chest and belly, arms, and legs. His skin was ruddy, glowing with health and freckles. He wore one of those hulky Rolex watches and a thick gold chain around his neck, with an ancient-looking coin in a gold setting that nestled between massive, bulging pecs, with plump, taut nipples.
A vision of him holding me against one of the posts of the screened porch, with my legs hooked on his hips and my mouth sucking on that medallion as he thrust a massive cock up inside me again and again flashed through my brain.
“As big a one as I can manage,” I answered, my eyes going to his crotch. If this was an invitation of any sort, I was game.
Seeing me do that–my mother’s attention altogether lost on a loose thread on her silky wrap–Hal moved a hand to his basket and cupped what was inside, straining his equipment against the material of the shorts, showing me that what he had there was as massive as I had fantasized it would be.
There was no question. He wanted me–and there was less of a question that he knew I would let him have me.
“Hal has been bugging me about making use of the tennis court, Grif,” I realized my mother was babbling. The tennis court was on the back side of the three-car garage opposite from the entrance into the house. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for anyone coming out here to console me to find me on the tennis court, and I need to drive into town for a couple of hours this afternoon anyway. Perhaps you could . . .”
“I’d be happy to play with him, mother,” I answered, lifting my gaze from Hal’s crotch, still cupped in his meaty paw, to his eyes and his smiling mouth.
Message conveyed.
“And perhaps you’ll give me a ride on your sailboat someday,” Hal said. “I’ll admit that I’m not fond of the water in anything larger than a water glass and never learned to swim.”
“I’ll be happy to give you a ride,” I answered, straight faced.
Why should mother have all of the fun?
We played shirtless and in full, obvious erection. Hal called out that the winner could have his way with the loser, and I just shrugged, knowing that I was a near-pro tennis player. He was good, but I was better.
Our match–really only one set, because we both were keyed up, was being observed. Toby had come around the side of the garage and sat in a lawn chair, watching us. As evidence that our arousal play didn’t fool Toby, he had his nine incher out and was stroking it as he watched us.
At the net post afterward, Hal pulled me into his sweaty body; brought my mouth to his for a deep kiss; ran his hand down my bare torso, under the waistband of my tennis shorts; and grabbed my erect cock.
“It didn’t matter who won, did it?” I whispered.
“No, it didn’t. You gonna fight me?”
“No,” I answered.
“A pity,” he said. “I’ll meet you in your bathroom.”
As he strode around the side of the garage, whistling loudly and happily, though, Toby showed that he had other plans. “Come upstairs with me,” he growled, as he reached out for me with both strong hands.
“I’ve got an appointment in the house,” I said.
“That fucker can wait for his,” Toby growled. “He’s getting you both. Upstairs with me, now.”
“Is that jealousy I detect, Toby? You needn’t tell me that you aren’t fucking my mother too.”
The only response I got was a repeat of the growl.
Upstairs meant the second floor of the garage, where there were two bedrooms, a bath, and a couple of storage rooms.
Toby hustled me up the stairs and into the handyman’s bedroom. The handyman, Seth, was in there, sitting on a straight chair by the bed and shining his shoes. He was wearing just briefs. He looked up at us when Toby pushed me into the room, but he just smiled.
“Shower,” Toby said, pushing me toward the bathroom.
When I came out, Toby was naked, on his back on the bed, but he bounced up and grabbed me and pushed me down on my back on the bed, with my feet on the floor at the foot of the bed. He knelt between my spread legs and took my cock in his mouth, as I moaned for him. Seth, a thin, wiry man of about forty, with a scraggly look about him, remained seated in the straight chair. He was grinning, though, and he pulled a long, thin cock out of his briefs and started to stroke it, keeping his eyes glued to Toby and me.
“Ride it,” Toby demanded as he lifted me off the bed, came in under me, and plopped me on top of his muscular frame. Straddling his hips, facing his head, I positioned his cock at my hole, slid down on it as far as I initially could and began riding it. As I rode it, my channel descended ever farther down the cock. He lay back, with his hands behind his head and arms bent, and watched me ride the jet-black staff, eyes slitted and a half smile on his face.
I heard the scraping of the chair legs along the wooden floor, and looked down to see the back of Seth’s scruffy black-haired head lean in over Toby’s belly, as the handyman took my cock in his mouth. He sucked me until, still riding Toby’s cock, I came.
Sensing by my tensing and intake of breath that I’d come, Toby laughed and lifted his knees, planting his feet on the surface of the bed, and pulled me over onto his chest as Seth pulled his mouth away from my cock.
“Now,” Toby muttered, as he embraced my torso in his strong, chocolate-brown arms. In pulling me down and lifting his legs, he’d cantilevered my buttocks up. He was long enough not to lose purchase in my canal, though, and when Seth moved up behind us on his knees and started pushing his cock into my channel on top of Toby’s, I began to writhe and moan.
I wasn’t surprised. Toby and I had gone out on the sailboat the previous summer, cruising the waterfront bars in villages on the banks of the Chesapeake. We’d pick out some stud who was willing and hunky, bring him on board the Westsail 32, and they’d double me in the sailboat’s cabin while the boat was at anchor in the middle of the bay. Professor Gupta had prepared me well.
Seth had hardened up thicker than I had imagined, though, and I begged for time to accommodate them both as he moved up inside me.
Toby just laughed, as Seth started to pump me. “We both know what you like,” he muttered.
I heard the scraping of the chair legs again and looked over to see a naked Hal sit down in the chair, facing us, lean over for a good look, and, pulling a monster out of the slit in the towel hanging on his hips, wrap his hand around his fat cock.
Later, at a signal from Hal, both of the men who had double fucked me nearly endlessly, it seemed, pulled away from me, rose from the bed, and were gone. They’d left their cum behind, slathered on my belly and thighs, neither of them having taken the time and effort to use a condom.
It was just Hal and me in the room. The shadows were growing long in the room, and I lay there on my back, legs spread, and moaning and whimpering slightly. Toby had been right. It had been what I liked. But it had worn me out. Who would have known that a skinny guy like Seth would have a cock that size? Toby, of course, was no surprise for me. I’d taken that cock since the summer I’d first left for Yale.
When they were gone, Hal stood up and walked around to the foot of the bed. He was in full, gigantic erection, his cock standing out from a flaming red bush. He reached down and grabbed the ankles of both of my spread legs.
“Ouch, that hurts, Hal. You’re grip is too strong. Not now. Not yet, please. Give me some time to . . . oh, shit. Oh, FUCK!”
He pulled me roughly down the bed to where my buttocks were on the edge, raising and spreading my legs as he did so. He let go of my ankles, grabbed my hips, and pulled my pelvis up to him.
“Oh, FUCK!” I cried out again as he thrust inside me; reared back, coming out nearly all the way; thrust inside again; and pumped me hard in long, deep strokes for a good five minutes until he shuddered and came inside me.
He leaned his torso over mine, his medallion brushing against my sternum, and buried his fist on either side my chest, inside my thrown-out arms, which had been outspread, my own fists scrabbling at the coverlet on the bed. My torso had been arched back, set against the strength of his thrusts, and I lowered my back to the bed and looked up into his eyes.
“It was good for you,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I said, exhausted but fully satiated, swimming in his cum. He was nearly as big in girth as Toby and Seth had been together.
He moved up the bed on his knees, and I lifted my head and took his cock inside my mouth, cleaning it and sucking it.
“You’re a sweetie,” he murmured. “The spitting image of your father.”
He moved down the bed again and reentered my ass with his cock. His medallion was dangling over my face as he leaned over me and slowly moved inside me, and I took that into my mouth and sucked on it. I encircled his waist with my legs and hooked them over the small of his back, and set my pelvis into a motion that moved his cock inside me up and down as he pushed it in and out. He was hardening and lengthening inside me again. He began pumping harder, deeper, faster.
I cried out and arched my back again, releasing the medallion from my mouth. It was whipping around and striking my pecs, my nipples, my chin now. I didn’t care. All of my sensations had gone to my channel and to the churning girth and length of him, getting harder, thicker, longer.
His hands went to my throat, and, with his thumbs on my carotid arteries, he was choking me. I gagged and struggled for breath, arching my head. My eyes were bugging out, and my head was swimming.
I spouted cum and, with a laugh, he released his grip on my throat, his cock still plowing me hard. I coughed and gasped and started to speak, but he was gripping my throat again. Squeezing, his face close to mine, his eyes wild. I gagged and felt an arousal high as I’d never done before. Stars were swimming before my eyes, and I was on the clouds, counterpunching the biggest, deepest-reaching cock I’d ever had.
I spouted cum again, this time much weaker than the last time.
Release, and he was deep inside me, holding there, his cock filling me to capacity and throbbing.
Once again the choke hold, the breath-control play. And this time I did black out, but not before feeling a slight, last release of my own cum, and a flooding of my insides by his.
That evening, at dinner, the discussion was somewhat desultory. If my mother noticed that there was any change in my relationship with Hal since she’d gone to town that afternoon, she didn’t remark on it. She seemed taken with her shopping trip and chattered on about all that she had bought and the people she had seen. Increasingly during the meal, though, I could see a cloud passing across her face. She was prone to migraines, and I could tell that one was creeping up on her.
I had spent the two hours before the dinner that the cook prepared and then left us to eat, going home to cook for Toby, down at the dock, working on the Westsail 32. I wanted to be alone and away from the house. Thus, when the dinner bell went off, I was just in a Speedo. I came to the table that way. I knew my mother didn’t like it, but she’d tolerated anything I wanted to do since I’d gone off to college.
I’d like to say that I didn’t strip down like this to pose for Hal and to inflame him, but that would be a lie. I found him exciting and forbidden. I had never come for anyone as I had for him this afternoon–never been dancing on the clouds as I did with him. I knew what he’d done with me was dangerous–for me. But that made it all the more arousing.
He appeared in shorts and an open-front Hawaiian shirt. The medallion on the gold chain hung between his pecs, and I swallowed my breath hard at the image of having sucked on that while he was fucking me hard–and getting bigger and harder and longer.
I never before had been barebacked like he had, his cum never stopping, flowing out of my hole and dribbling down my thighs. Planted deep inside me. This too was a luscious danger.
My mother was remarking on the medallion Hal was wearing. “It looks like an ancient coin. Is it a family heirloom.”
“It is a coin, yes. The horse’s head is Phoenician, but the coin is from Carthage, leveled by Rome sometime around 200 B.C. It’s new. I got it on a recent trip. A visit to the ruins of Carthage.”
I stiffened. Carthage. A ruined city on the coast of what was now Tunisia. Tunisia. I had looked Tunisia up after coming home from the funeral.
When I looked up again, my mother was rising, and saying, “I’ve suddenly had a migraine come on. I’d best go to bed.”
“I’ll stay out here and keep Grif company,” Hal said.
“Yes, that would probably be best tonight. And I’ll be asleep later, I’m sure.” This I’m sure was shorthand for “no sex tonight,” given cryptically so I wouldn’t understand it. But of course I understood it all.
When she was gone, I rose from the table and said, “I think there’s baseball on the TV in the living room. Mother said just to stack the dishes in the kitchen, but I’d best do them. I don’t want to displease the cook. She too good for us to want her to be upset with us.”
“Leave the dishes and come up to the sleeping porch with me.”
“I think not,” I said, suddenly not that wild about being manhandled by Hal. I also had just remembered that he’d said earlier that I was the spitting image of my father. I’d had no idea he even knew my father. From where? From Tunisia?
I picked up dishes and moved through swinging door to the sink, around a kitchen table and across the room. He was behind me quickly, pushing me into the sink, hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of me, trapping me in. I wasn’t a small man, but he was considerably bigger and stronger.
I could hear him sniff next to my ear. “You smell nice. I know that smell. It’s the smell of a sweet piece needing to be fucked.”
I was sassy enough that normally I would have retorted that it merely was the smell of roast beef, from dinner, but he had a scent about him too. A musky scent of need, want, and determination.
“Hal,” I croaked.
But he already was pulling me away from the sink, picking me up, propelling me toward the kitchen table, and slamming my chest down on the table top. He quickly had my Speedo and his shorts stripped and had mounted me and was fucking me. He was holding my head down on the table with one hand gripping my neck.
Then there were two hands wrapped around my throat and I was gasping and gagging, my eyes were bugging out, and, in stark contrast to my distress, I was floating on a lightheaded high of arousal and sexual release, represented in a prodigious ejaculation onto the tiles under the table.
“Where do those stairs lead,” he hissed in my ear when he’d released my throat.
“To servants rooms above,” I answered in a raspy voice. “Not now used.”
He fucked me again and again on one of the single beds upstairs, above the kitchen. Each time he used breath control play. Each time I came for him. And in the end, he flooded my insides and then left me, moaning and whimpering and rubbing my throat. But also in a state of sexual satiation that I’d never experienced before.
* * * *
“Is this what you came for?” Tyler Weston, my father’s former spymaster, asked when he could catch his breath. He was on his back on one of the twin beds in the guest room of his foreign artifact-stuffed apartment on Q Street near Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C. I was saddled on his midsection, my hands gripping his outstretched wrists, my channel still moving slowly on his cock, now becoming flaccid inside me.
I had told him I wanted information more than comfort and solace when he’d opened his door to me. But he’d made no bones about what I’d have to do to get any information that was classified.
He was vain enough to believe that I’d really come for his cock. And this was the second fuck, the first one having been on a bear-skin rug in front of his fireplace with me on all fours. He was proficient enough to have his vanities, if he wanted.
But I had come for information that I suspected only he could–or would–give me.
“I want to know how my father died. I’ve been told he was murdered. How?”
“He was strangled. In his room in his hotel in Tunis,” Weston answered. He reached down to start stroking my cock. That was fine with me. I wanted release too. But not just that kind of release.
“Was he on the job?”
“Yes.”
“Was he on the job alone?”
“No. He had a partner.”
“A partner? Henry Holden, perhaps?”
“Yes, but how did–?”
“How much of a partner was he?”
Weston hesitated. “What is it that you think would shock me–that should be kept back from me–when we are here as we are?” I asked.
I moved my channel on his cock, which was reawakening. I was about to blow myself. I leaned down and took his mouth in mine, kissed him deeply, and then moved my mouth to his nipples. He moaned and I could feel him rising inside me.
“Do you want to fuck me again?”
“Yes.”
“How close was their partnership?”
“As close as it could get; as close as you and I now are,” he answered with a whimper. I let him turn me, onto my stomach, mount me, and begin the fuck once again.
Later that evening, having arrived back at Clifftop, I asked if Hal wanted to take that sail out into the bay. “The scenery will be beautiful in the twilight, the sunset and everything. Then I can show you how accommodating the cabin of the sailboat is. Out on the bay, there will be no one to surprise us. It will just be you and me.”
“It sounds great,” Hal answered.
I didn’t know about great, but it sounded just and fitting to me. Boating accidents were fairly frequent on the bay. I hadn’t had my quota of those yet.
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