And into the Fire

Aylor continued enjoying both young men in his bed himself, sometimes three of them together. Dex was versatile. He fucked Finn as often as Aylor did, and once, in late February, Dex and Aylor shared Finn in training preparation for a night in which Aylor sold Finn to a visiting Nigerian soccer team. There had been nine of them in a hotel room. They were all black and built. Some were formidable, but soccer doesn't require the bulk that American football does. Fast runners are more needed in that sport.

The nine of them had sport with Finn, passing him around between each other, fucking him in their individually favorite position while the rest stood, watching and beating their meat, and then passing him to the next. Twice he was left babbling between two, in him at once. At the end, they were good enough to put him under the water in the shower, dress him, and take him downstairs to help him into a cab. It had taken Finn four days to recover from that date, but he'd had a half smile on his face the entire time he lay in the bed, moaning softly. After the big-cocked, enthusiastic, athletic, team-working Nigerians Finn was ready for pretty much anything. It had been a profitable evening for both Finn and, of course, Jordan Aylor.

When Finn recovered from that, he could have walked out of Aylor's apartment and kept on walking. Aylor showed no indication he would oppose that in any way, if Finn wanted to leave. Finn didn't walk out. He kept taking the high-roller tricks Aylor set up for him.

* * * *

The first week in April Brian came into the apartment and was set up in the third guestroom. He was a bit younger than either Finn or Dex. He was a blond Greek, not all that dissimilar to Finn in looks and build. He was a bit of a screamer and dramatic when Jordan fucked him in the master bedroom. Aylor said that would be popular with some man—giving it up like a virgin each time—and he must have been right. Brian was put on a busy schedule.

He was so similar to Finn in looks and was taken into Aylor's bed much more than Finn was in these days that it began to make Finn feel redundant and in danger. He had every reason to think that.

Soon after Brian arrived, Aylor took Finn on that last drive.

As the Jaguar entered the Lincoln Tunnel en route to the New Jersey shore, Finn finally sat up in the passenger seat and took notice. Jordan Aylor had told him he was going on a weekend assignment and that he should pack casual and sports clothes and a couple of Speedos. Finn hadn't asked any questions. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. He hadn't been consulted on where he'd go, who he'd go with, and what they'd do before, and there was no reason to think he'd be consulted this time either. The cash he'd receive would make it, on the balance, worthwhile. But always before the trick had been confined to Manhattan.

He had reasons he didn't want to appear in New Jersey.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"We're almost there," Aylor said. Coming out of the tunnel, he got on Park Avenue, headed south, in Hoboken, and within minutes they were pulling into the Shipyard Marina and stopping at a pier beside a supersized yacht.

"That's got to be at least 120 feet long," Finn said, looking at the vessel.

"A bit more than that, I was told," Aylor said. "The Web site I was directed to when I got the reservation request on you says it is 122 feet long, is named the Sonic, and, like you, it's rented out with crew."

It wasn't the way Aylor usually talked to him. His tone was hard. Finn was about to say something when he saw three burly men come off the yacht and move toward the Jaguar. Finn's eyes went to their armpits. All three had gun holsters hung there. One was taking his gun out of the holster.

"Umm, Jordan, I don't think this is a good idea. Let's backup and get out of here."

"This is your weekend stint, Finn. You're going deep-sea fishing and are part of the entertainment. Go ahead and get out of the car and pull your bag out of the back. These gentlemen will take you on board and get you settled."

"Gentlemen? These are thugs, Jordan. Did you make sure to check them out? These guys might be in the mob."

The three men took up positions. One was walking around the Jaguar, running his hands over it and admiring the styling. The one who had his gun out of his holster was standing off, in a half crouch, holding the gun in front of him. The third one opened the passenger door.

"You need to get out of the car and go with these men, Finn," Aylor said, his voice still hard, and looking straightforward, avoiding looking at any of the men. "Let's not make a fuss now."

"Us? You have said anything about picking me up on Monday. Will you be meeting the yacht? Will it be coming back here?"

"We'll see about that on Monday."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't think you'll be coming back, Finn. If it's any consolation, I didn't really have any choice in accepting this contract. They asked for you, Finn. No, they demanded having you. You might do some thinking why that is so. They asked for you by name, including your last name—Bradlee. Of the Boston Bradlees. My advice to you is to make yourself as desirable to these men as you can for as long as you can." Finn's blood ran cold. "I told you I would research you and find out who you are. I did. Your family in Boston is curious about your absence, but I get the impression that it's more concern about how many splits there are in the family fortune than about your well-being. I think this is the end of the line, Finn. It's up to you where you go after this—and how you manage to get there."

"You're a bastard, Jordan," Finn said, looking at the thug holding the car door open and trying out a nervous smile on him as he got out of the passenger seat and reached behind the seat for his suitcase.

The real shock to him, though, came as he was being escorted on board while the Jaguar was pulling out of the parking lot. One of the men was showing him into a door of the large salon when he caught sight of where the other two men were walking, toward the covered fantail of yacht. His blood was running cold again. He recognized the middle-aged tall, heavy, but muscular, and obvious in-command man sitting on a curved sofa following the rail of the fantail, with a rubberized dingy hanging on a frame behind him. Enzu Tortino, who Finn had reason to know was the patriarch of one of the New Jersey mafia families, was sitting, talking to a younger, good-looking, muscular man, laughing, smoking a cigar, and holding a can of beer. Both men were wearing Speedos and nothing else. Tortino probably shouldn't have tried it, although he was more solid than fat. The other man looked sexy in his.

But it was Enzu Tortino who made Finn tremble as he was led to the next lower deck and to a small cabin, with a bed, an attached head, and a wide window overlooking the Hudson River. He was locked in. Less than a half hour later, as he was looking out of the below-decks window, which was a real window rather than a porthole, he saw another limousine pull up. Two young women, obviously high-class hookers from how they dressed and how good-looking they were, got out and came aboard. Another twenty minutes and two limos drove up, disembarked five men, who looked like a matched set of Enzu Tortino's crew—a middle-aged patriarch the others fawned over, a hunky lieutenant, and three armed soldiers. It looked to Finn like this must be some sort of peace or war council they'd be conducting in international waters.

Another hour and the yacht was on the move, steaming down the Hudson, out into Upper New York Bay past the Statue of Liberty, along the Staten Island shore, out into the Raritan Bay, and hence out into the Atlantic off New Jersey.

It took until dark to reach international waters, sufficient time for Finn to relive what he knew of Enzu Tortino, what he'd seen in that Jersey City Italian restaurant, and why he had escaped over into New York City and sunk into the homeless world. He had been doing some part-time waitering at the Italian restaurant which, unknown to him, was used as a meeting place between the New Jersey mafia families, being an authentic Sicilian restaurant and sitting on the edge of the territory of two families. Tortino apparently was having a meeting with a rival chief and Finn was coming out of the kitchen with a food order when Tortino and his crew took umbrage at something and started making swiss cheese of the dining room with bullets. He dropped his food tray and he and kitchen staff escaped through the back. But he never was sure that he hadn't been seen and remembered by any of the Tortinos, who had apparently come out of the shootout on top, as Enzu, his lieutenant, and at least one of the foot soldiers from that day were on the yacht.

Finn learned early that he didn't seemed to be remembered from the restaurant shootout, at least yet, because as the yacht cleared the Raritan Bay, the men were up on the deck behind the bridge, where chairs were bolted to the floor and fishing rods were set up. They didn't get into business while still in U.S. territory, but they did fish. And they drank, and they brought on Finn and the two prostitutes. Gays separated from straights in the ten-man guest party and fondling was in order. Tortino himself commandeered Finn for pawing, with the lieutenant of Peppi Puglisi, the patriarch of the other mafia family, hovering around, showing a lot of interest. A couple of the Puglisi foot soldiers were also ogling Finn. The rest shared the women prostitutes between them. The few men sniffed around both Finn and the women, ready for "any port in a storm" sex.

Finn didn't actually get fucked in the afternoon, but he did give four blow jobs and received "all the way later" declarations and winks from each of those guys. He was put back in his cabin while the rest were eating dinner. He received his dinner on a tray in the cabin.

At 9:00 p.m., a crew member—there were five of them, all capable-looking men who supposedly went with the yacht rental and thus seemingly were neutral—brought a skimpy red satin Speedo to Finn and told him that he and the girls would be dancing for the men and performing with the men in the salon. This was when he was fucked twice.

The girls were just in red satin bottoms as well. The guests lounged around on sofas, chairs, and pillows on the deck in the salon while Finn and the girls danced provocatively for them to CDs. The lieutenants and foot soldiers drew lots on being included in the performance and Finn and the girls were fucked, in a line, in front of the others, most of whom had their dicks out and were stroking them. Finn was in the middle, hanging off the pelvis of Peppi Puglisi's lieutenant, who was holding him up with a beefy arm under his waist, while Finn arched back, the heels of his hands pressed into the deck, his knees hooked on the lieutenant's hips, and the hunk fucked him. There was a girl to either side of him being fucked as well.

After this display, one girl went to Peppi Puglisi and gave him a lap dance that proceeded into a fuck. The other girl went to Enzu Tortino's lieutenant for the same, and Finn knelt in front of Enzu Tortino, between the man's spread legs, sucked his cock, and then danced on his lap and rose and fell on Tortino's cock. The man was hung and cruel, forcing Finn all the way down in his lap from the first stretching slide, slapping his cheeks both above and below, squeezing Finn's buttocks and mashing him around in his lap, punishing Finn's passage with his thick, hard shaft, chewing on his nipples and his neck, and as he approached shooting off, choking the young man with his hands, controlling Finn's breathing, releasing the pressure with each blast of cum. Finn could believe that the man killed other men and didn't need a gun to get it done.

When he was finished, Tortino pushed Finn down on the deck on his back, panting and emitting a low moan. The cruel gangster beckoned to a beefy black crew member who had been standing on the periphery, watching and rubbing the crotch of his white trousers. The man smiled, pulling his T-shirt over his head and unzipping himself as he approached. He knelt between Finn's thighs at the direction of Tortino and ran a beefy arm around Finn's waist to elevate the young man's pelvis. As Tortino watched with a little smile on his face, the black sailor fucked Finn in a missionary position.

Mercifully, Tortino still didn't recognize Finn from the restaurant shootout. Tortino took him to the master cabin and banged him for half the night, showing that the old man still had "it." He sent Finn back to his cabin prison at 6:00 a.m. Before Finn fell onto the bed and into an exhausted sleep, he saw lights outside the cabin's window and looked out. Another, smaller yacht was out there, taking the two girls off the Sonic. Finn assumed that fresh women were brought on board at the same time, but he was wrong, and thinking on why he was wrong would have given him warning of trouble to come.

At 8:00 a.m., Puglisi's lieutenant and one of his foot soldiers were let into Finn's cabin. They woke him and worked him over—both giving him a bit of a beatdown for their bloodlust pleasure and then fucking him, separately, and then together, in a double penetration. The lieutenant was on the bottom, facing up, and a thoroughly cowed and submissive Finn was stretched out on top of him, facing up, and on his cock. The young, muscular, hung foot soldier was between Finn's spread and raised legs and giving him a good fucking on top of the lieutenant's buried cock.

Along about 9:00 a.m., Finn discovered why the two had been let into his cabin. He was a divide-and-conquer distraction. That's when it hit him that the girls had been taken off the yacht and probably not replaced to cut down on the collateral damage. While the two Puglisi soldiers were doubling him, gunfire started up in the bow of the ship. The whole fishing expedition had been planned to feed the core of the Puglisi family. The two who had been fucking Finn managed to get out of the cabin, with their guns, but they probably didn't get far before they joined Puglisi and the two others in a pool of blood on the deck. Maybe not, though, the gunfire was continuing. They left the cabin door open and Finn saw one of the supposedly permanent crew go by, gun in hand. So, Tortino's forces probably had the use of five extra guns too.

Adrenaline pumped through Finn's veins in spite of the sexual beatdown he had experienced. He had the presence of mind not to go out into the corridor. Instead, he grabbed up the chair in the room, smashed out the cabin window, and exited that way. He was below the first deck, but he managed to work his way around hand-over-hand, toward the stern. The gun fight was going on near the bow. He reached the inflatable dingy and managed to release it in the water.

He started the motor and headed toward the New Jersey coast. At last his escape was noticed, though, and he had to duck as several gunshots were sent his way—almost too late, though. He was out of range before he could be hit. He wasn't out of range before the dingy was hit, however. Those on the boat lost interest in him then. Someone's bullets hit something vital and volatile. The ship went up in an impressive explosion and sank quickly.

It didn't look like he was far from land when the dingy finally took on more water than it could manage and sank from underneath him. He started to swim toward shore, glad that his high school days had been spent as a lifeguard on a Massachusetts beach.

Distances to land from out to sea can be deceiving, Finn was to find.

* * * *

Finn washed up on the beach at the end of Ocean Terrace at the southern end of Seven Presidents' Park in Long Beach, New Jersey. He lay there, on his belly, naked, his torso raised a bit on his hands buried in the sand, retching out the sea water he'd swallowed before he could get to the beach.

He was found a few minutes later by sixty-five-year-old Walter Durham, owner, along with his wife, of Walter and Megan's Grocery just a short walk up Ocean Terrace from the beach. Walter had been out that morning fishing off McLoone's Pier. When he could, Finn babbled about mafia gangsters and a fire fight and an exploding yacht, and Walter helped him back to the small grocery store, took him upstairs to the apartment he and Megan shared over the grocery, and held him under the shower, while Megan made up the bed in one of the rooms where they let vagrants sleep if they came to them needing shelter.

Finn could not have picked a better place to wash up if he wanted to be sure he'd never been sought by the New Jersey mobs. If they knew about him at all, they would have assumed he'd died in the yacht explosion if he didn't announce himself as alive and go to the police, many of whom were in the pocket of the mobs. There always was that nagging question of why the Tortinos had known his name and had specifically asked for him to be contracted for their boating party. That remained a mystery to him, but it did make him wonder if anyone in his family in Boston might be connected to that. Walter and Megan had reasons of their own to protect him. They'd lost a son as an innocent bystander in a gunfight war between the Tortinos and the Puglisis.

"You can stay here," Megan said, "If you wish. We can help you get redocumented. You could work in the grocery, if it's not beneath you. Walter's getting tired. We'd hoped Tony would be alive to take over the grocery, but he isn't. We take in vagrants, but we have a couple of bedrooms available even if you're living in one."

"I'm not above working in a grocery," Finn said, content to become a substitute for the son Walter and Megan had lost. "There's someone I'd like to track down to be here too, though, if it's OK with you—since you take in men who need the support."

The couple were fine with his plans. It took three weekends of returns to New York City, but he found Sarge and brought him back to Long Beach. Walter was happy; he was a veteran of the first Iraq War too.

From time to time Finn thought of his family in Boston—and in just how glad they'd be to find he was still alive. To the extent one or more of them didn't wish him well, though, there remained a good possibility that someday he'd surface and claim his share of the Bradlee fortunes in Boston. Wouldn't that burn their asses off, he thought, with a smile.

As time went on, Finn found a real hunk with an arousing personality and a big cock at the local tavern. Big Jim owned a local car garage. He was a real in-command kind of guy. He like riding the asses of young men, and he liked riding Finn's ass so much that they became almost exclusive.

Almost. But they were both happy that each liked just a little bit of variety on the side.