Matryoshka Kidnapping

Harry Bolton had been in Beirut about a year. He was one of the more noticeable gems in the motley collection of expatriates from this or that Western country who centered our lives on the American University of Beirut for a taste of the cultures we otherwise, and for different reasons, were escaping. He was an academic from a rather vague, but obviously wealthy, American background, and was a very good looking blond. Lean and supple, clean and fresh, he looked like a retired model in whatever he wore. In winter, loose cuffed corduroys and casual shirts, with a simple cashmere jacket. In summer, well, whatever he wore, he looked good in. The package was topped off by a full head of golden blond hair and youthful blue eyes. I was vaguely aware via rumors why he was here, but all I cared was that he was here.

We had met several times, but he always seemed so sophisticated and aloof that I was afraid to approach him. And when he had spoken to me, I had lost my voice. I ached for him, but could do nothing about it but confide my passion for him to Arnold, a British importer tucked away here more or less in hiding from several European governments.

"Him?" Arnold said, "Gee, you like a hard life. From what I have heard he already has a harem of well-built young Arab and Turkic guys at the university who he can take his pick from."

That certainly depressed me. I was a bit old to go to university—both Arnold and I were—but we both came from established businesses that required little of our attention—his in dealings in Turkish artifacts, not always aboveboard, and I with my small regional airline. We had time on our hands and the university had proven to be a great place to pick up younger men. Arnold had tried to make clear, however, that he was here to pick me up, not some fresh, young tail. For some reason he fancied me beyond all reason. And I might have been interested, but he was an unshakable top, and, since I'd come to Lebanon, I was insisting on being the same.

I wasn't young anymore, but I was still pretty presentable—certainly Arnold, who nagged me incessantly to let him bed me, seemed to think so. I'd been to university in my native Australia quite a few years before. Like, fifteen. A long time ago, really, but I had been a serious bodybuilder in my younger days and still stacked up OK.

I'd signed up for Bolton's class on purpose, just to watch him up close—and Arnold had signed up on a never-ending quest to get into my pants. I'd known Harry was some sort of lecturer here, and his regular talks on ancient civilizations at the local museum were the reason I had originally met him. Oh, and once I had met him at a party. A museum cocktail fundraiser. He had been doing a good job of being polite and attentive and casting his smile and baby blues on the serious donors and supporters, and I had looked on and wondered how much I'd have to donate to get him to look at me that attentively.

"I hear he has a thing for Mediterranean types," Arnold added, with a sniff. "He's spent some time there on various archaeological digs and doing research and goes on about the men. Dark hair, muscular. Especially Turkic men. Hum." He grunted, looking me up and down. "When it comes to dark sultry looks, that's you, I suppose," he added. "But I thought you didn't like blonds?" Arnold was doing what he could to put me off the fetish I was forming for Bolton.

"There are exceptions," I replied huffily.

But yes, I had dark hair and was muscular, I thought, feeling as if there might be some hope after all. But Harry had hardly even looked at me when we had met. I sighed, and told Arnold my attributes certainly hadn't made any difference so far. Arnold smiled happily at that.

The next week I dragged Arnold along to a lecture on the ruins of Mycenae. Harry was giving it, of course. He was looking very casual, and his blond hair was longer than usual, so it occasionally fell down over one eye. It looked incredibly sexy as he brushed it back with his long muscular hands, and he looked incredibly smooth and hot. And I had it on good authority that his tool was a match for those hands.

We had arrived early and got middle seats in the second row, and I ogled Harry, while at the same time trying to keep Arnold's hand out of my lap. I sighed repeatedly and was aching for Harry as much as ever. I was nervously thinking about going up and asking an intelligent question at the end of the lecture when I saw a dark young Lebanese hunk move in on him, and the two were talking in animated gestures down at the podium. I sighed forlornly.

Arnold looked at me and rolled his eyes, "I think it's time you got over your crush, mate—or took drastic steps." I had to agree.

Some people, well most people, think I am very quiet and wouldn't hurt a fly, but Arnold knows me a bit better than that. When I am roused I can be quite a different person.

We got ready to leave, but Arnold was dithering, and I suddenly realized that two young Turkish guys in the row behind us were talking in low voices and that the topic was sex. Well, Arnold could always listen to that sort of gossip, which I assumed explained his hesitation, and I couldn't do anything but listen too.

"Not a bad talk. Last night he fucked two of his students I heard," one of the young Turks said.

"I heard three," his companion replied. "And that he was the one being fucked, and he wanted it rough."

"Yes, I've heard he likes taking it a bit rough. Has some fantasy about being fucked by a Australian footballer and his mates in the courtyard of an ancient villa on a remote Mediterranean Island. That time I was at that party? Well he had some huge hunk of a Turk plowing him up on the back of the sofa with everyone watching. Hot. Great body for a guy his age."

"Hm." The other replied. "Yes, a great body for his age."

Then they got up and left.

I was stunned. Arnold looked at me and said," Any ideas?" and the wheels in my head were busily turning, and I was feeling roused. Yes, roughly was definitely the way I could do it to Harry.

I looked down at the lecture podium just in time to see Harry and the young stud leave by a side entrance. The young guy already had a possessive hand on Harry's well-rounded butt.

* * *

Nabil wanted to leave right after I'd given the lecture. He was anxious to get me bedded and I was just as anxious for him to be doing a repeat of the plowing he had given me last night. But I held him there in conversation. I needed to be sure that my two young Turkish friends would do what I asked and that Arnold and Howard would conveniently overhear them.

I was desperate. Beirut had been like everywhere else I'd tried. The pickings of young men had been great, but there always had been their families. And before long, I was being threatened and harassed by very-well-placed families for debauching their young men. Beirut had proved to be even more threatening than most. Not only had I received death threats for having introduced Nabil and others among the cream of Lebanese manhood to my sexual preferences, but I had been hauled into what passed as an Islamic court, charged with attacking the virtue of Lebanon's youths with threats of nasty punishment to come, and now had also had my passport pulled. It was time to move on, but I was trapped—the morals police were closing in but I couldn't leave the country.

Then I learned of Arnold, the importer, and met Howard, whose family owned the airline. Howard was quite attractive and he seemed to have a good sense of humor and to be intelligent. And he was dark and handsome and well-muscled, all attributes I melted to. I easily could have happily seduced him. And in my own way and to my own purposes, I was working on that. I saw the possibility that he and Arnold could be my salvation, but I don't know if they would have helped me without what I was trying to maneuver them into. They had to live with these powerful families in Lebanon. Helping me would be a tremendous risk for them. What I've done is possibly the only way I could make this work for me.

I would love to go with Howard; I know he wants me. But I must make him want me so badly that he will accept the risks—that he will think he is the one setting everything in motion.

I broke through my internal analysis of my precarious position to find that Nabil had guided me up a side corridor and into a small storage room filled haphazardly with wooden boxes.

"I haven't much time, Nabil," I said. "If we are going to fuck, we need to go straight to your flat."

"That isn't safe anymore," Nabil said. He was already breathing heavily and had me pushed up against a wooden crate and was fiddling with my belt buckle and pulling my trousers down. "They will be watching both my flat and your house, I'm sure. Besides I can't wait. I must have you now."

And he did have me right there and then. Once we were both shed of our trousers and he was pushing his pelvis into mine and showing me how desperately he needed to be inside me, I just sighed with surrender to my own aching need and opened my legs to him. He sat me up on the rough wood of a crate top and forced his dick deep inside my passage and plowed me to cries of desire and fulfilment. I responded wildly, not knowing if this would be my last taking by Nabil—or by any man if I couldn't figure out a way to escape the prison walls that were closing in on me.

Nabil was fucking me roughly. He wasn't giving me time to adjust. And I hated this dark, smelly room and these hard, rough crates. I was all silk sheets and soft beds and pleasant music and sweet smells. Nabil was rooting like a pig, taking me hard and with ugly guttural sounds. But I hadn't given Nabil favor just because he was a beautiful young man with a monster cock. I had selected him because he was Arnold's wife's nephew.

* * *

Harry answered his door in bare feet, wearing flimsy running shorts that showed he had great legs, lightly covered with fine gold threads of hair. On top he had on a university T-shirt framing a flat belly and good arms.

I'd called ahead, telling him I had a small carved head broken from a statue, which I had recently inherited. It was supposed to be ancient Roman, and I had said I wanted someone to have a look at. I wanted to know if it was genuine, and I'd told him that he was the expert the museum had recommended. Now I was there, he smiled, and said, "Good to met you, Howard," as if he meant it and then asked me to come in, and I followed him along the rug-covered hallway. As he walked, I watched his hard nice round butt cheeks flexing and moving hypnotically under the flimsy fabric of the shorts.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, I thought, let me at them, and my dick lurched. But I tried to ignore it.

After we had walked a short way down the passage, I suddenly knocked Harry forward, and he went down. He hit the floor hard, winded and shocked, and I planted my foot heavily in the center of his back, stopping him from rising however hard he struggled. Then I reached over him with my other hand and flipped the Oriental rug we had been walking over, across him. Before he could think of what to do, I was rolling him over and wrapping him up inside the rug, his arms pinned to his sides and his legs trapped.

He yelped helplessly, the noise muffled almost completely by the rug as I manhandled him, lifting him up and then throwing him over my shoulder. The rolled carpet bounced and rocked uncomfortably and I could feel him moving and twisting about inside it. And there were some more strange noises coming from inside too. Coughing sounds. I went out of the front door and closed it behind me, then took a few steps and with a heavy thump dumped the rug containing Harry onto the hard metal tray of the van I had driven up to his house in. I took the rope I had brought and tied it around the rolled rug to stop it unrolling. Good, I thought, as I tied it off. Nice and secure.

We had a long journey ahead. Arnold and a small band of Turks, including the two students who had sat behind us the other day and talked about Harry and who I had enlisted in this little adventure with the promise of a great deal of money, were waiting for me in the van outside Harry's house.

* * *

And so it begins, I thought resolutely, as I tried my best to breathe within my dusty carpet cocoon. It had been a wild plan, with almost no chance of working. But it had started as planned. A miracle. But I could use a less dusty-clogged miracle. I couldn't breathe, and the dust in the rug was invading my throat, causing me to sneeze and wheeze. But I couldn't cough. I couldn't let Howard and whoever was helping him—Arnold, I hoped, as he was the one with the connections to that island I've heard of that would be a perfect place for me—I couldn't let my captors—no, my liberators—be stopped by the authorities.

I only hoped that they have taken the bait and the suggestions I've thrown their way and the sketchy planning I could do in the little time that had been available to me. If I were to be freed by the frenzied Howard only to find that I was still in Lebanon, I didn't know what I'd do. This time I had every reason to fear for my life. I saw the look on the faces of those four judges at my arraignment. I was just lucky they hadn't thrown me deep into their prison there and then.

* * *

I thanked the captain for the unscheduled flight and, together, Arnold and I pulled the rolled-up rug containing Harry out of the cabin of the executive jet and slid it into the back of a small farm truck. Our Turkish helpers had gone ahead to open up Arnold's villa on this small island off the coast of Turkey that he used for his less savory import operations.

"Will Harry be OK?" I asked Arnold, indicating the small battered truck, "This thing doesn't look like it has any suspension."

Arnold just laughed at me. "Hey, you have kidnapped an American academic, rolled him in a rug, and flown him here. Now you are worried if he gets bruised? If this idea of yours is as mad as it sounds, you have a lot more to worry about than that when your Harry gets out of that rug," he responded, and went off to his motorbike laughing.

I climbed into the truck's battered cab and the weather-beaten old man behind the wheel held his hand out. I put the two fifty pound notes I had promised Arnold I'd give his estate caretaker in it. "You are a thief," I told the old man. He smiled a toothless grin, understanding the language of the pound notes but nothing that I said in English. I don't know why, but the old man's noncomprehension sent a chill up my back. Lust for Harry had made me run headlong into this wild scheme. All I could see was the chance to take him out of his element and fuck him. It hit me now, though that I also was out of my element here. I wasn't much freer than Harry was.

"Drive," I said, waving him on, "And try to keep the ride smooth," I added. "We have delicate cargo."

The old man just laughed, put the truck into gear, and bounced down the road away from the airstrip.

The first part of the journey was fairly smooth, but then we reached the village. Once we had entered its narrow winding streets the road improved briefly, but then the final section was little more than an old unevenly cobbled alleyway, and the whole truck shook and bounced constantly. I was panicking, but the old man ignored my shouts telling him to stop, and all I could do was to hope that Harry was well enough padded by the expensively thick oriental rug he was inside not to be seriously hurt.

We finally arrived at the walled entrance courtyard to the old Villa, and Arnold was standing there, smiling at us and holding the heavy wooden double doors open. I slid out of the cab, my legs shaking, and hurried to the back of the truck.

With the help of a couple of the Turks, I lifted the rug with Harry in it from the back of the truck and carried him inside through the heavy wooden doors that Arnold was holding open. They closed with a thud, and I imagined Harry feeling slightly frightened inside the carpet. But then I lay him down again.

The young Turks had made themselves some food while they waited for us and were now laughing and drinking coffee and Ouzo. The courtyard was full of masculine laughter, and deep pleasant voices talking. For the first time the looks they sent my way seemed a bit ominous and threatening, but I tried to suppress any feelings of uncertainty that were trying to rise within me. I had done all of this to have Harry here and helpless and mine. I had to focus on the prize.

I undid the cords holding the carpet rolled up around Harry and rolled him over, and over, unwinding the rug.

* * *

When the carpet was unrolled and I was freed after that long, painful journey, I lay there stiff and blinking for a minute; then I saw Howard standing over me, and I also saw several dark-haired, olive-skinned, and muscular Turks sitting about and smiling down at me. Looking further, beyond the circle of men, I saw that I was in the courtyard of an old house and that the oriental rug I was lying on had been rolled out on a small paved area at its center.

I started to laugh and cough at the same time. Laughing because this was exactly what I had asked Nabil and the Turkish students to implant in Howard and Arnold's ears—the description of a wild escape plan that I hoped would inflame Howard and make him set into motion my undocumented escape from Lebanon using his airline and Arnold's Turkish connections. And it had worked. And all I'd have to do now was to let Howard fuck me, which was something I'd wanted to happen anyway. And then, with luck, Arnold would let me hide out on this island of his until I could figure out where else in the world I could go to feed my habit of seducing young men from prominent families and getting away with it.

* * *

Harry was laughing and coughing. The coughing obviously was the result of being wrapped in the rug; the laughter must be a touch of hysteria at being completely at a loss about what was happening to him and why. But I hadn't done all of this just to give him an adventure. I ached for him. And I was going to take him now, whether or not he was willing. And he was confused and in a weakened state now, so I had best get to it. Then pay off the Turks and ask Arnold to leave Harry and me here until I could bend Harry to my will—until he only wanted me.

I bent down and kissed Harry as I stripped off his clothes and tossed them to one of the Turks who neatly folded them and set them on the ground beside his chair. I stripped off my own clothes and did the same with them. I wanted to have Harry for myself, without these grinning Turks looking on—but I had waited too long. I had to have him now for the first time, while he was still somewhat dazed. The tenderness and seduction could come later, after I'd paid off the Turks and they and Arnold had left.

I knelt down and wrapped one hand behind Harry's head and lifted it to me, kissing him as my other hand moved down his body. My strong fingers were stroking over him, running over his flat hard belly and down, caressing and circling and squeezing his penis and balls, his tool already stiffening as he moaned in anticipation. Harry pushed out his chest, lifting himself up with his arms, as my lips moved down to his nipples. And he was whimpering too—as below, one of my fingers slipped into his entrance and he began to fuck himself on it gently. His hips worked instinctively and little cries came from his mouth as I teased and tugged his nipples with my teeth, before returning my mouth to his, losing myself in the taste and surrender of him.

I heard no signal; I did not see the shift in the circle of men around me. I was lost in foreplay with Harry, who wasn't resisting me, to my great delight and wonderment. Thus, I was completely defenseless when Arnold and a couple of the Turks approached me with the ropes I'd untied from the carpet encasing Harry and bound my hands, wrapping the rope around the base of an olive tree in the center of the courtyard so that I was leashed there like a dog.