Silas's Choice

Marcello gave a little cry and a lurch and collapsed against Silas's chest, gasping for breath, as Silas undoubtedly flooded his insides with cum. I could tell from Marcello's twitching and the rhythm of his gasps that he was getting multiple gushings of Silas's seed. But Silas stroked on, still watching me with hooded eyes and a half smile—until I could take it no more and withdrew to the cool water of the shower—wondering if this is what I had come for. If my subconscious knew what I would find here—and welcomed it. I was confused and scared and excited and aroused all at the same time.

A shy and demure Marcello served us a calamari and salad dinner with excellent red wine by the pool on the terrace at eight p.m. that evening as the sun went down. Silas was playing the welcoming host of a long lost friend and both he and Marcello were pretending that nothing had happened on this very patio table this afternoon and that I hadn't seen it and that they hadn't seen me or my revealing response to what was happening.

But Silas didn't maintain the pretense. Over brandy and his favorite Robusto Vegas de Tabacalera Esteli Premiem Cuban cigars afterward, he was as open as I would want him to be.

"No, I didn't just resign and walk out on the job because of those two assignment choices I was given, Ward," he said. "The assignments and what they symbolized reflected where I was with the outfit, of course. I was disgusted with the red tape and the dumb decisions and them continually just hanging us out to dry and to survive as we could. And then giving us little pats on the hand when we brought home the bacon for them and acting like they could all do it just as well as we did. And my disgust was showing through and undoubtedly was what led to the assignments. But, no, it wasn't because of that. It was because of you."

"Me?" I was incredulous. What had I done to alienate him. We'd been best buddies. I had worshipped him and would have done anything he told me to do, would have gone into the jaws of Hell just on his assurances that we could pull out of it—and I always believed he could get us out safe. And he always had. What had I done?

"I grew to love you, Ward. More—and much more dangerous than that—I wanted to have you. The urge was almost uncontrollable. And we couldn't have that in the outfit, could we?"

"Love me? Have me?" I still didn't get it. But he just sat there and looked at me with those sad eyes and it began to dawn on me. "Oh."

"So, I can't tell you what to do with the job offers, Ward. Because your situation isn't what mine was. For me, the third choice—just getting out and evaporating—increasingly became the only logical choice. As hard as just getting out is with those folks. They want to make the decision when a man's usefulness and the relationship is at an end."

The hair was standing up on end on my head. I had never felt this way or been in a situation like this before. I was confused. Scared, confused, and aroused all at the same time. This was all just too new, going too fast. I couldn't speak. I couldn't have formed words even if I knew what to say. I certainly dared not say what was swimming around in my mind just now.

I looked up and Silas was giving me a long, hard stare. "As I said, your situation isn't the same as mine. . . . Is it?"

It seemed to be a very important question, and there had quite a pregnant pause before Silas had pinned the question down, almost as if this was a decisive point he was trying to make. But my tongue wasn't mine to control. I felt like I had cotton in my mouth. I could feel that I was slightly trembling and getting sweaty. Me, a hardened behind-the-lines, boots-on-the-ground agent, trembling and sweating at the mere thought of what could be and what a cataclysmic change doing what I was thinking of doing would be. I couldn't say a thing. I just sat there.

Silas watched me for a while and then he sighed.

"Gone but not forgotten, you know, Ward. The opposition has a long memory, and the outfit has an even longer one for those who disappoint it. So I'd advise that you lock your door tonight. We're ever vigilant here. If you don't lock it, this could be the night something happens. I'm going to bed now. After breakfast, I'll have Marcello drive you back to Seville. I can't really tell you which choice to make. You have to make your own choices." His voice had gotten a little hard--hard but, at the same time, sad. And I could feel a chasm opening between us. I wanted to scream for it to stop widening, but I just couldn't say it.

And then he was gone. Lights went on behind tightly curtained windows in the French doors of his wing of the house and I just sat there, watching the last pink and purple of the sunset fade out at the rim of the sea and the dotting of twinkling lights begin to glow along the sides of the cliffs to the west and east.

When I entered the foyer, I briefly paused at the door into Silas's rooms, desperately wanting to take up the conversation again, not wanting us to end on this note. But the iron-studded doors looked just too daunting.

I was exhausted—and not only from the long plane journey—but I was reluctant to go to my room. Somehow, when I entered that room and closed and locked the door behind me I knew this would be a closing out on an important choice. I lingered in the studio, drinking in the paintings of Marcello and of other beautiful, sexy young men. It was clear now that Silas had had more choices available to him than those the outfit offered and that he had gone for life rather than one form or other of death. Having had my fill of the uncovered paintings, I moved on to those with coverings over them, still terrified at the thought of entering the bedroom and closing and locking that door, erasing for me the choice that Silas had made.

I uncovered one of the paintings and then staggered back in shock. I moved quickly around the room, uncovering the rest. And then I just collapsed on my haunches in the middle of the room and trembled as I drank them in. They were all of me—in the nude—and accurate down to the mole on my inner thigh. Silas had memorized my body from those years of working and living together in intimate circumstances. He was even more intimately aware of my body, amazingly so considering the distance in time and location that these must have been painted, than even I was. He had that little up curve of my shaft just below the mushroom cap just right, a characteristic I had never been fully aware of myself. And that small chameleon I had impulsively had tattooed on the small of my back one drunken night in Bogota was something he'd seen and memorized that I myself would never get a good look at. He had made me look like a real, alluring stud—and maybe in his eyes I was.

The most arresting painting, the one that took my breath away, was a big one on an easel right in front of where I was sitting. Whereas most of the paintings in the room were of solo subjects, this one included both me and . . . Silas—in an intimate embrace. We were facing each other and I was reclining back on something that Silas hadn't chosen to graphically depict, no doubt wanting all of the attention to go to our bodies. We were nearly pelvis to pelvis, him inside my spread thighs. But we were on a bit of an angle and there was enough of a separation to see that he had his cock buried inside my ass. He wasn't all the way in, and I could feel the heat inside me rise, as my eyes were glued to the root of his cock and those bulbous balls of his resting against my thigh, suspended in time, intending to bottom inside me but never destined to do it.

I willed my eyes to pull away from that sight. I was trembling and feeling an arousal I've never felt before. My eyes traveled up Silas's well-muscled torso and a little jolt of desire went through me as I saw the curling of the black hair on his chest, trailing down in a wide band across his belly and into his pubic hair. I wanted Silas. I probably always had wanted him. I remembered now how much pleasure I'd always had at seeing Silas bare-chested. That curly black hair and that beefy musculature. All man. I'd always thought it was just admiration for a perfect man. But, if I was prepared to be honest with myself, I now had to admit that it may have been more than that—even then, back on the Amazon.

The answer was in how Silas had drawn our faces. Intent on the fuck, lost in each other, our eyes glued to each other's. Just the two of us. Just the two of us, as one, against the world, blotting the world out as we melded and made love to each other.

I couldn't take it anymore; I raised up off my haunches and lurched into the bedroom.

I didn't even think about it when I got to my room, but this was when I made my choice. I left the door unlocked; I didn't even close it. Then I stripped and showered and opened the French doors to the cool sea breezes and lay spread-eagled and naked on my belly on the bed under the netting, silently sobbing myself to sleep. Damning myself for not having found voice to answer Silas on the terrace—to respond to him. Why couldn't I cross that chasm? What choices, really, was the outside world offering me?

Ever the professional in tradecraft, Silas had entered the room and my bed without my being aware he was there. I heard no telltale breathing, saw no flickering shadows, didn't sense the pulling aside of the netting. And as heavy as he was, he was stretched out full length on top of me before I sensed his presence.

He must have hovered above me on his elbows and knees, because the first thing I felt was that monster cock of his in the small of my back. That in itself was enough for me to involuntarily emit a moan. And then he was encasing me, closely, from above. His hairy barrel chest on my shoulder blades, his strong thighs encasing mine, my arms being pinned to my side with his.

He put his lips to my ear and whispered to me. "You left your door open."

"Yes."

"I want you. You know I want you."

"Yes."

"Have you ever . . . before . . .?"

"No." He couldn't have missed the trembling in my voice when I answered thusly.

A pause.

"I don't know if I can keep myself from . . ."

"Then don't."

"Then don't what?"

"Don't keep yourself from fucking me. I've made my decision. I left the door open. I'm totally open to you."

A sharp intake of breath. "But I want you hard and deep and all night."

"Yes."

"I'll try to be gentle—until we are sure that you can . . ."

"Please." I turned my mouth to his then and we kissed deeply. I could feel his need stroking the small of my back.

He rose off me then and kissed down my shoulder blades and my back and across my butt cheeks and he had his face in my crack. I moaned and writhed in a newly found ecstasy, as he attacked me with his tongue and slipped his hand between my legs and pulled my dick back through my thighs and alternated stroking it with his hand and lowering his mouth to it and giving it special attention.

He spent a good half hour preparing me, opening me to him with his tongue and lotion and his fingers. And when he entered me, he did it slowly, gauging his insertion to my gasps turning to moaning, waiting at each level for the nature of the moaning to change from pain to pleasure and then sinking a bit lower. The worst part was the entry of that huge mushroom cap of his, and then, as the rest of his throbbing dick followed, I felt like I was being split by a telephone pole. He was so, so big. I grunted and cried and he whispered soothing words to me. Saying I was doing great and I was so, so nice, and he had dreamed of doing this for years, that he could hardly keep his hands off me during that last operation in Colombia. I felt myself being stretched to the limit, but just when I thought I'd be torn and was ready to cry out that I couldn't go further, my walls would loosen, and he could go in another half inch. He had me up on my knees under him, but my legs began to feel like jelly. His strong hand went to my belly then, and he held me there, giving me the support I needed to stay with him. Another half inch in, and I no longer was panting. I felt myself going flush.

"Breathe, breathe," he was whispering insistently. "You're holding your breath. You'll black out." He somehow felt that we were beyond some turning point, and I felt him starting to rock back on his knees and he was taking me with him. And we were in a sitting position now and I was above him and sliding down on his pole. Deeper, deeper, but it wasn't a battle of half inches now. I was well lubed, and the thickest part of him was well inside and I was taking him deeper. At length he had bottomed.

"Nine inches. Nine thick inches," he was murmuring to me. "That's good. You can take it. You're tough and healthy and supple. I knew you could take it. Oh, how I've wanted this. For years. And you came to me in the end."

And then he was pulling my legs up with hands under my thighs, and I had adjusted to him enough for him to start stroking, which he did at increasing rapidity and depth, moving my butt up and down on his pole as I had seen him do to Marcello earlier in the day as he stood and Marcello clung to his midsection. He had maintained his strength and muscle tone these past three years. I felt the muscles of his pecs tighten and loosen on my shoulder blades as he raised and lowered me, and I thrilled at his body working for me, a thrill that shot through me to my nerve endings. This was what I wanted. I wanted Silas, forever. And I hadn't even known it until now. I opened more to him, and he could feel the tension draining from me, my encasing walls making love to his cock now. I could feel him tremble to the ecstasy of the fuck.

I was stroking myself as he moved me up and down on his tool and I came with a lurch and a gasping exclamation from me and a satisfied low laugh from Silas. Then he rotated me back onto my belly on the bed, and, his pelvis plastered to my buttocks, began to move himself inside me by moving his pelvis up and down and sideways and in a rotating fashion on me. I moaned and panted and cried for his deep fucking. My walls undulated around his moving tool, and he was moaning now too.

I came a second time before his first ejaculation. But by his third plowing of the night, me on my back on the bed with my pelvis rolled up and him hunched over me, spreading my legs with his hands, and fucking hard and fast down into me, I was becoming able to time myself more closely to him. I was a fast learner, and he was an extraordinary teacher. He always had been. I just had never been aware of the full breadth of his talents.

Shortly before dawn, after waking me and taking me a fourth time in a vigorous, passion-exploding side split, he left me. Between fuckings we had plotted what to do, how to make my own choice and get away with it. This was what we were good at. He told me that as far as anyone knew I was at a resort near Barcelona. He'd had one of his lovers, someone who looked much like me, take the car I had hired from the Seville airport and drive it to Barcelona and claim my hotel reservations. I was in Barcelona, not in Portugal.

As I lay moaning in the bed and trying to straighten my legs, feeling all flush and filled and fulfilled, Silas made some phone calls. After serving us a late breakfast by the pool, Marcello drove off again toward Spain to deliver the payoffs and stand by as the authorities made the phone calls that they regretted to report it, but that a vacationing American government official, one Ward Spano, had been incinerated in what appeared to be a random terrorist suicide bomb attack on a car park in Barcelona. Where should they send the ashes, if they could differentiate which were specifically his? The voice on the other end of the line wasn't all that surprised. This was a common end to those in our business. And it fit in with the choices they had had for me anyway. A loose end clipped; an annuity saved.

By evening Marcello was back, in triumph, and Silas gave me lesson number two—me fucking a sighing Marcello in the swimming pool under the stars.